Check Mate
by Ajestice
Summary: What if someone had seen through the illusion? It took Emory only moments, looking beyond his mask and into sharp, calculating blue eyes. You see, the thing is... Michael wasn't mentally unstable. He was just very, very smart.
1. Lost

**Equally Matched**

_(title subject to change) __**  
**_

-

_This story is based on the 2007 remake of Halloween. It is set in an alternate universe in order to accommodate Emory's presence, but otherwise follows the basic plot of the movie. Reviews are always welcome._

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Screams echoed down the pale, sterile hallways of Pilot's Mountain Sanitarium. On the fifth floor, in the East Wing, Dr. Emory Brighton stood outside of Jack's room, watching him silently through the narrow glass panel in his door.

He was sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. She couldn't see his eyes, but she knew they were blank and quiet.

"How is he, Mel?" She asked, glancing over at the nurse who stood at her side. Her childhood friend, Melanie Stilton, who had stayed in their hometown when Emory had left for college.

Mel just shook her head.

After another long pause, Emory nodded.

"Let me in," she said. Melanie frowned.

"It's not safe, Emory. He's unstable - "

"I don't care," Emory snapped. "I want to talk to him."

Melanie's expression grew hard. "Look, I know you're a doctor, but you're still human. You're not even supposed to _be_ here without Steven." Emory's lips thinned to an angry line. Steven Cline, damn his eyes, had refused to let Emory treat Jack. Her own brother, for Christ's sake! He had even taken steps towards refusing to let Emory _see_ Jack.

"I'm not going to ask you again." The same steely determination that had made Emory the top in her class at Stanford, and the youngest practicing psychologist in Illinois, now focused itself on Melanie Stilton, in all its overwhelming force.

Melanie sighed. "Fine. But I'm going to bring Security up on standby."

While Melanie made the call on her two-way radio, Emory returned her gaze to Jack. He had not moved once in the ten minutes she'd been watching him.

Inside, her heart ached for him. Her sweet baby brother. Damien had been so happy when she had left for college! Laughing, joking, charming everyone around him like a piper.

He had been the perfect student, the coolest little brother, and the doting son.

Until his Fugue personality, Jack, had murdered their parents.

Melanie returned, flanked by two security guards. She unlocked Jack's door and pulled it open. He wasn't a runner. He wouldn't try to escape.

Emory slipped into the room.

"Jack?" She asked, voice soft. When he did not respond, she took a few steps forward. "Jack, it's me, Emory. Do you remember me?" No movement, not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Emory swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She'd dealt with countless Fugue patients. It was her specialty. She'd gone to medical school because of Jack.

So why was this suddenly so difficult?

"Jack, they told me you attacked another nurse. You need to wake up and talk to me." She added a hint of steel to her voice, a half-command. "Please, Jack. I want to help you."

Something flickered to life in Jack's eyes. He turned his head slowly, and his gaze locked onto hers. Emory smiled.

"Are you my new doctor?"

Emory blinked back the blur of tears. "No, I just came to visit."

"Oh." Jack returned his gaze to the wall. "You should leave."

It felt like someone had stuck a knife in her heart. "I'd like to talk to you, Jack." She took a step closer to him.

Like lightning, Jack lunged for her, face twisted in a demonic snarl. Emory had enough time to throw her hands up to ward him off before he slammed into her.

She heard her skull smack against the concrete wall.

And for a few seconds, everything went terrifyingly black.


	2. Anger

_Note From the Author: I'm not a psychologist, so there is always the possibility that my writing about Fugue Catatonia is way off the mark. In which case, I'm using Artistic License. Still, if you'd like to correct me, I'm completely open to criticism. I promise!_

-

Stars danced in her vision, overlapping the scene of Jack being restrained by two guards. Melanie was kneeling beside her, her face dark with concern.

"Emory? Emory. Wake up." Melanie's sharp voice brought her out of her haze. Another face appeared in her vision. Steven Cline, handsome as ever. Emory sighed inwardly. He was not happy.

Suddenly, Emory was being hauled to her feet and escorted to a lush, comfortably appointed office, where Steven unceremoniously tossed a bottle of Tylenol into her lap while Melanie pressed an icepack to the back of her head.

Steven cursed her colorfully while she swallowed four of he pain pills.

"I told you, damnit, I_ told_ you not to try to see him alone! He's degenerated rapidly since you last saw him. He could have killed you, Emory!" He went on along this thread for several minutes, cursing and crowing until Emory could no longer tell his words apart from the screaming pain in her head.

"For Christ's sake, Steven. Put a lid on it," she snapped through gritted teeth. Steven glared at her for a moment, as if weighing his chances at surviving her wrath, then with a sigh he walked over and sat down on the couch beside her.

"I should have known you wouldn't listen to me," he muttered. Emory rounded on him so fiercely that Melanie dropped her icepack.

"I've treated hundreds of Fugue patients, damn you!" She snarled. "I've been attacked before, I know what this job entails. Don't you _dare_ talk down to me like I'm some recalcitrant intern!"

Steven leaned back slightly at the venom and force of her words. He had a pained look on his face.

"I never intended to give you that impression, Emory," he said sharply. "You know the rules as well as I do. You can _not_ treat him."

"He is the _reason_ I became a psychologist!" Emory said through gritted teeth. "I need to _understand_. I need to know why..." Her voice failed her.

She felt Steven's hand on her shoulder.

"We're working on it, Em," he said gently. "You can't help him right now."

A long moment passed in silence. Mel and Steven watched her. Thoughts flickered through her mind like fireflies, and she briefly saw Damien's face in her mind, young and smiling, with laughing green eyes.

Someone different lived behind those eyes now. Someone she could not get through to.

Emory closed her eyes and sighed. "You're right."

Steven stood up and walked over to his desk. While he was rummaging through his mail, Melanie reached out and took Emory's hand.

"I heard you left Lazare," she said. Emory nodded. Saint Lazare Regional Hospital had one of the most prestigious psychological departments in the Midwest. It had only taken Emory a few months to realize that most of the doctors were so bogged down in the beaurocracy of hospital-run mental institutions that they barely had enough time for their patients.

"Where are you heading now?" Mel asked. "You could have your pick of positions in Illinois."

"In the entire Midwest," Steven added with a slight smirk. Emory sent him a sharp look, and he sobered, heading back over to her with a letter in his hand. "Here, take a look at this."

Emory's gaze flickered over the letter with disinterest.

Until her gaze fell on one name, glaring out at her like a floodlight.

_Michael Christopher Myers._

Emory's breath caught in her throat. Michael Myers was one of the most infamous cases of Fugue Catatonia in the _country_. Emory had spent hundreds of hours researching cases like his, building up her theories until her interest had reached the point of obsession. Next to Jack, Michael Myers was the patient that Emory wanted more than anything in the world to treat.

But he was jealously guarded by his therapist, Dr. Samuel Loomis.

"Loomis has asked me to recommend someone for a routine analysis," Steven said. Emory smirked.

"Since when does Samuel Loomis need help with an analysis?" The tone in her voice caused Steven to roll his eyes. It was no secret that Emory did not hold Loomis in high regard. What Steven did not realize was just _how_ much Emory disliked Michael's therapist.

"It's not the test he's interested in, it's the doctor administering the test."

"Stop being cryptic, Steven," Emory said with a frown.

"He wants a young female," Steven replied. "He thinks a woman might have an effect on Myers."

Emory felt a smile curl her lips. "For once, he might be right."


	3. Finally

_In which Michael finally makes an appearance._

-

Samuel Loomis gripped his clipboard more tightly to his chest as he approached the Conference Room. His palms were sweating, his heart rate elevated. He should try to get a handle on his excitement – Michael would notice instantly that something was off - but he found that he couldn't. Today was momentous; his idea, brilliant. Why hadn't he thought of it before?!

Dr. Emory Brighton kept pace at his side, a poster-girl for calm serenity. Loomis smirked inwardly. She was nervous. She had to be nervous. She was about to meet the infamous psychopath, Michael Myers.

Loomis paused outside the door and turned to the girl.

"Wait here," he instructed. "I will let you in once I've explained everything to him."

Irritation flickered in Dr. Brighton's slate-gray eyes. Loomis ignored it. He turned and gestured for one of the three armed guards to open the door.

Michael was sitting at the table, wrists chained behind him, face hidden behind a blank white mask. So today it was Nothingness. Loomis had nicknamed each of the masks his patient wore, and had found that they corresponded with something that vaguely passed as emotion in the monster.

Nothingness was as close to sorrow as Michael could get.

This would be interesting.

"Good morning, Michael," Loomis said, settling into a seat across the table from the hulking form of his patient. It had been sixteen years now. Sixteen years of talking to a brick wall. _Why_ hadn't he thought of this before?!

Michael's eyes flickered behind his mask. He knew something was amiss.

"Yes, Michael. Something is different. I've brought someone to meet you." He paused, watched Michael closely. "Her name is Dr. Brighton. She's quite pretty." Ah, there it was, that flicker again! Just a slight movement of eyes beneath eyelids. Excitement surged through Loomis.

He stood, and knocked twice on the door. Dr. Brighton stepped through, and Loomis watched her eyes as they fell on Michael. Her expression did not alter but for a slight thinning of her lips. Loomis frowned. Most of the doctors he brought to Michael showed shock or fear at his unusual size. Sitting down, he was almost as tall as a normal man standing.

Dr. Brighton turned to Loomis. "I'd like to speak to him alone." It was more a command than a suggestion. Loomis bridled indignantly.

"He is my patient - "

"And you asked me to analyze him," she interrupted sharply. "I have done my time under observation, Dr. Loomis. I assure you I am perfectly capable of handling a routine analysis on my own."

Loomis felt anger unfurl within him, but he clamped it down tightly. She was right. He did not have the authority to oversee another Psychologist's examination. He would have to watch from behind sound-proof, bullet-proof glass to see how Michael reacted to her.

With a curt nod, he turned and left the room.

-

Emory let out a small sigh. In truth, Loomis had been the one factor in this whole equation that had worried her. She had studied him, his history, his books, and his methods. And she had discovered something very interesting.

Samuel Loomis had stopped trying to help Michael a long time ago.

She supposed this was a point in Michael's favor, proof of his skill.

Emory sat down across from Michael and looked at him. His hair was long and tangled, he wore a tattered bathrobe over a pair of dirty scrubs. His face was hidden by a white mask with small holes cut out for the lips and eyes.

He sat perfectly still, and the only movement came from his steady breathing.

"My name is Emory Brighton," she stated. She would not coddle this man. Not if he was what she thought he was. "Dr. Loomis asked me to come here because he thinks that you might react to an attractive female near your age." She watched him for signs that he understood her, that he even heard her, and saw nothing.

"He wrote a book about you. He's taught lectures about you. About what he thinks is wrong with you. But he's way off the mark, isn't he?" There was no amusement in her voice, no smugness. Only simple fact. "He believes you are a child trapped in a man's body, that you were consumed by a sociopathic personality at a very young age and that you have lost all capability for emotion."

Emory lowered her voice. "But that's not true, is it?" She paused and her eyes narrowed. "I have studied hundreds of cases like yours; men, women, children, all suffering from some form of Fugue State..." She trailed off suddenly. Images of Jack surfaced in her mind, cutting off her voice. Sadness washed over her.

"You are not mentally unstable," she said softly, looking out the thick glass windows, out over an autumn forest. "You are just very, very smart."

She felt his eyes on her, as if they were a physical force. She looked over and met his gaze, held it. Sharp blue eyes, calculating eyes, stared out of that blank, empty mask, and Emory thought she had never seen such a contrast. She wanted to smile and frown at the same time. Those eyes...

They were issuing a challenge.

"I didn't come here to expose you, Michael," she said softly. "It would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove and I won't waste my time or my good name in doing so. I came here because Loomis doesn't understand you. And I would like to." She raised an eyebrow. And now for the final blow. "Surely you've gotten bored these past few years. It will be an interesting challenge for you to find a way to kill me."

A long moment of silence passed between them. Each watched the other, each waiting. Emory gazed into his crystal blue gaze. She would never in her life, even under threat of torture, tell anyone just how enraptured she was by those eyes.

And then, like some ancient stone statue come to life, Michael slowly tilted his head a fraction to the left. An indication of curiosity for Dr. Loomis, the man watching from behind the mirror.

Emory smiled. "I'll see you in a few days, then."

She stood, paused for a moment, and sighed. "Loomis will probably insist on sitting in on our next meeting. I'll have to treat you like he does or he'll never allow me to continue seeing you. I apologize in advance." With that, she turned and moved towards the exit, knocked on the door once, and left the room. She felt Michael's gaze on her the entire time.

-

AN: I had originally wanted their first encounter to be longer, but there's only so much you can do with a one-sided conversation and a short-tempered psychologist who refuses to play to Michael's tune. Let me know what you think!


	4. Bonnie

_Note: In the movie, right after Michael kills his family, he walks up to his baby sister and says, "Happy Halloween, Boo." I decided to take that into account and use Bonnie (Boo is a nickname for Bonnie) as Laurie's original name. It was changed to Laurie when she was adopted by the Strodes._

-

It had been a long time since Michael had seen a beautiful woman. It had been a long time since anyone had stirred something in him other than hate.

And then Emory Brighton had walked in like some hell-bent angel and turned his world upside down in under two hundred words. No hate there, oh no. Interest in her, in how she put it together. It took a very special, perhaps not-quite-stable person, to see through him. Yes, and there was something else he felt. Pure _male_ interest.

Michael didn't waste time berating himself. He'd done damn good these past sixteen years, he'd tricked countless doctors, experts, analysts... he'd even tricked his own mother. He'd known that his ploy wouldn't work forever. He'd told himself that one day, someone would see past the symptoms, the tests and diagnostics, and would realize the truth.

But, damn him, he hadn't expected Emory Brighton.

Michael stared down at the wood grain on his desk, but in his mind he was seeing that_ woman_. Inky black hair, slate-silver eyes, that deceptively soft voice. And no fear, no fear in her at all.

Michael reached up and lifted the white mask from his face. He stared at it for a very long time.

He had killed five people in his lifetime. Not due to rage, but cold, pure hate. Hate for those who took their anger out on someone smaller or weaker than them. Hate for those who preyed upon others. Hate for those who despised what they feared.

Hate for human nature in general.

Michael sighed. His eyes wandered over his desk, and up to the wall where he had pinned the photograph of him and Bonnie. He had spent more than a decade grinding his emotions down into weak, frail things that held no bite and no pain. So what washed through him when he looked at Boo was only a vague echo of sadness.

In truth, Emory Brighton was only halfway on the mark. And no doubt she wondered why Michael had not yet tried to escape, since he was more than capable of doing so. Yes, he was smart. Yes, he was immensely strong. But there was someone outside, out in the real world, and it would be better for her if she never knew he existed.

Bonnie Myers. The only person in his life, apart from his mother, perhaps, whom he had never found it in him to hate. Bonnie was an innocent. And if it weren't for him, she would have had to grow up in the same environment as Michael. He would have died before he let that happen.

He would have killed.

And so he did.

"Live it up tonight, Michael, 'cause tomorrow things are gonna change around here." Those were the words his mother had said that Halloween. And so he had. He had taken it upon himself to rid the world of three people whom he despised, three abusers of the weak. Or rather, two abusers and one horny moron who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

For Bonnie. He'd done it all for Bonnie.

Now, the situation had changed. Even if, for some reason, Emory decided not to rat him out, Michael's position in this world had become precarious. Even one person knowing – damnit, not even _Loomis_ knew – was a threat to everything he had worked for.

Something had changed, and now Michael needed to start planning. He would escape. He would have to kill more people. Well, that was no big deal. And then what would he do?

He'd find Emory. What would he do with her? He did not seem to hate her, he just saw her as a threat. And there was that curious lack of fear. Was she really that confident? Or was there some other explanation? And there was also... the part of him that wanted to touch her. Oh, he could feel it in the back of his mind, begging to come to the surface of consciousness. He fought it, because lust was the only emotion he'd never been able to learn how to stamp down into the dust. It was the only emotion that had sent his blood pounding through his body, set his teeth on edge, made his heart beat faster.

And she was a magnificent specimen, wasn't she?

Michael allowed himself a very small smile. So he would have some fun with Emory first. He might kill her. He might not.

And then he'd go find Bonnie. He needed to see his little sister. He would see her one last time, and then he could be done with it all. He wanted to see how she had grown up, if she looked like their mother, if she was happy and safe.

And then he could die.

Unless, of course, a better opportunity presented itself.

They'd just have to wait and see, wouldn't they?


	5. Smart

Emory sat quietly in Loomis's office, watching him pace behind his desk. Minutes ticked away in tense silence, broken only by the occasional echo of footsteps out in the hallway.

"What did you say to him?!" Loomis demanded. In his eagerness, he seemed more than capable of ignoring the thunderous expression growing in Emory's eyes. "All this time, hundreds of hours of trying to bring him out, and you accomplish it in a matter of _minutes_!" He stopped and stared at her with a feverish look in his eyes. "_What did you say to him?!_"

Emory sent him her best, most innocent smile. "I just told him what I knew about him." She paused to let her lie sink in. "I've found that sometimes, reiterating the patient's history can help to bring them out of their Catatonia. It forces them to remember who they are."

Loomis made an irritated noise in his throat, and Emory suppressed a smirk. No doubt he was trying his damndest to justify how a 26-year-old know-it-all little bitch had managed to get through to a patient that Loomis had been working on for more than a decade. Yes, Emory could understand how that might sting.

But she felt no sympathy at all for him. Samuel Loomis had made more money on his book about Michael Myers than he ever had by treating the man.

As Loomis ranted a while longer, Emory let her mind wander, and she wasn't at all surprised when it wandered straight back to Michael. The feeling that shivered through her when she thought about those clear blue eyes... it was something as similar to fear as possible, some strange mixture of wariness and excitement. She had just challenged one of the most dangerous men in the country. In fact, now she posed the _greatest threat _to one of the most dangerous men in the country.

She had every reason to be afraid, and yet, of course, she wasn't.

"Dr. Brighton!" Loomis snapped, bringing Emory's attention back to the issue at hand. "Is your analysis complete?"

Emory frowned. "I need to do some research to be completely positive, but I believe so."

"Good. Send me your report when you're finished."

And with that, Samuel Loomis dismissed her. Emory tried her best to hide her smile as she left the room. When she was sure he intended to remain in his office, she took a right and made her way towards the third floor, where Michael was kept. The guards on duty glanced uninterestedly at her id tag; they'd seen her earlier at the conference with Michael.

She walked down the hallway, to the last door on the left, where Michael's name was emblazoned on a steel plate. She stepped up to the narrow window and looked through.

A pair of cold blue eyes stared back at her. Emory's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He was standing in the middle of the room, facing her, staring directly into her eyes as if... as if he'd been expecting her.

Emory smiled. "Very, very smart," she murmured. She wasn't sure why she felt so drawn to him. He had every reason to want her dead. He could, in fact, be planning her death at that very moment.

But still, despite the fact that her finely honed common sense was telling her to stay away from him, Emory felt quiet helpless against whatever it was that pulled her closer. Was it the intelligence that shone so clearly from his eyes? Was it the allure of a dangerous man?

Or was she just crazy?

Emory nodded once to him and left. That last possibility was fast becoming a prominent one in her mind, and she could not afford to show any weakness in front of Michael.

Because it was becoming more and more likely that she would not survive the next few months.

Two days passed. Emory buried herself in her research to keep her mind off Michael, and the growing sense of frustration that he had lit within her. Why was it that she couldn't go an hour without feeling that chill and seeing those pale blue eyes in her mind? Was she destined to become obsessed with him? Was he the factor that would finally push her over the edge and into complete madness?

The more she thought about him, the more determined she became to understand him. Yes, she had realized the truth about Michael Myers, but the answer to that question had only dumped a million other questions upon her.

Why the masks? What facet of his intelligence had lit upon masks as a method of coping with his imprisonment? And why, if he was so clearly capable of escaping at any time in the past decade, had he decided to stay in the asylum?

What drove him to kill? What drove him to become mute? Did he have a conscience? Did he try to justify his murders?

She wasn't sleeping well. She was barely sleeping at all. She had to be prepared for the call when it came. She had to be well armed against both Loomis and Michael. She knew he must have ways to communicate, even if it was subconscious, and she was determined to find out how.

And she was determined to get some answers to all those questions Michael had brought upon her.

On the third day, Smith's Grove called, some random nurse asking to set up an appointment for another conference with Michael Myers. Emory agreed, and she smothered the anger she felt at Loomis. If he couldn't handle a simple call for help, what the hell made him think he could handle Michael Myers?

Anger or no, questions or no, Emory slept very well on the third night.


	6. Let The Games Begin

_Somewhat longer chapter today. Please excuse the time it took me to get this out to you, I'm juggling college, work, and my writing. The first two must take precedence._

_Enjoy!_

_Amanda._

-

Emory only needed a dab of concealer to mask the now-fading shadows beneath her eyes, and this time, she wore her hair down, falling in loose black curls. She even dabbed on some lip-gloss. This way, Loomis would connect Michael's actions to Emory's appearance, not her words. It would be easier for both Michael and Emory. If Michael cooperated.

Loomis met her at the door of the Conference Room, eyeing her with a frown.

"After you left he showed no changes from his original state. I would appreciate it if you would allow me to sit in on your interview." Ah, so he had learned.

"I would be delighted to have you with me."

"Thank you." He paused, hand on the door knob, and smiled. "I hope you will be able to accomplish as much today."

_You have no idea. _Emory sent him a dazzling smile and followed him into the room.

Michael was sitting with his head down, a crude red mask on his face. Emory was not prepared for the jolt of excitement that hit her at the sight of him. He was very male, though, wasn't he? He was wearing a white t-shirt, so she could see the muscles that corded his arms. She tilted her head at him as she sat down.

"Good morning, Michael," she said, adopting that sickly-sweet doctor voice that so many psychologists love to use. His eyes shot open at the sound of her voice. Loomis leaned forward to make sure he'd seen that correctly. Emory suppressed a smile at Michael's response. She felt almost… giddy. _Michael had decided to play._

"Michael, do you remember Dr. Brighton?" Loomis asked. "I asked her to come back and talk to you." He sounded as if he'd just accomplished the most fantastic thing in the world by bringing Emory back. She gritted her teeth, glanced sidelong at Loomis, and then back to Michael.

He was looking at her now, focused entirely on her.

"The last time we spoke, I mentioned your mother. Do you remember her, Michael?" She tilted her head in mock sympathy. Beside her, Loomis cleared his throat. Michael narrowed his eyes, just enough for Emory to notice and for Loomis not to. Emory inclined her head in acknowledgment. Not Deborah. Not yet. "And your sister, Judith. She wasn't very kind to you, was she, Michael?"

Michael tensed. She saw it only because she was looking directly at him, and had found herself so very aware of his physical presence, and so she caught the movement of muscles in his neck as he clenched his jaw.

Yes. Judith would work fine.

"Did she hurt you? People can hurt other people in many different ways. It could be that she said bad things to you, or laughed at you, or maybe she hit you. Is that why you killed her, Michael? Because she hurt you?" She spoke as if she did not expect him to answer, the same way that Loomis had probably been speaking to him for years now. And she could see Loomis, switching his gaze back and forth between Emory and Michael, gauging the reactions of one to the other.

It dawned on Emory just how intricate a game she was playing with these two men. One knew exactly what she was about, and the other hadn't the vaguest idea. Loomis saw what he expected to see. Emory saw exactly what was there. And Michael, well, she still wasn't quite sure about Michael. She would feel a lot better once she knew.

What did he see? A challenge, perhaps, or a threat.

Or a woman. Maybe Loomis actually had that right.

Maybe what Michael needed was a woman.

Emory gritted her teeth and obliterated that thought from her mind instantly. She was not here to get emotionally involved with a psychopathic killer, no matter how smart or virile he may seem. The very idea was laughable, and Emory might have even laughed if it weren't for the fact that thinking things like that was not at all funny. Her mind had weaknesses, more so than any normal person. And her body… Well her body just couldn't be trusted, could it? It had noticed that Michael was there, and that he was a strong man in the prime of his life, and her body could not tell the difference between a regular man and a serial killer, so she let it think what it wanted to.

Her mind would not fall into that trap so easily.

The interview dragged on for another thirty minutes or so, until Emory got tired of her façade. Michael, for his part, did wonderfully. He even tilted his head, just slightly, just once. And as Loomis escorted Emory out of the room, Michael watched her go.

In the hallway, they walked for a while in silence. Then Loomis turned to Emory and sighed.

"It has been fifteen years since I last heard that boy speak," he said, and for the first time Emory caught a glimpse of the psychiatrist in Samuel Loomis, the one who might have actually tried to help Michael a very long time ago. She heard regret in his voice.

"I read that his silence coincided with the death of his mother," Emory noted. "Was he close to her?"

"Not unusually so. She came and visited him once a week for almost a year before she killed herself."

"Because of the nurse?"

Loomis shrugged. "Probably a combination of things; the publicity from his trial was quite unpleasant for her."

Emory hugged her clipboard closer to her chest, wishing she could be in the security room to watch Michael walk back to his cell. She wanted to know how he walked, to see how well he mimicked the characteristic half-shuffle of Fugue Catatonia.

"And she was a positive influence on him?" She wondered.

"She was the best we had. He only seemed normal when she visited."

Perhaps because he could not quite bring himself to deceive her. Perhaps he still had some shred of conscience within him. For some reason, that notion comforted her.

They reached the front entrance of the building, and Loomis turned to her.

"It has come to my attention that you are currently unemployed."

Emory raised her eyebrows. "Has it?" She had told herself she would not let Loomis know how excited she was about working with Michael; she was one of the best, and she'd gotten that way through years of hard work. She had a special interest in this case, but that did not mean she would answer to Loomis. Apart from everything, she did not like the man. He was the kind of person – the kind of doctor – who would have had her locked up in an instant if he knew everything about her.

Loomis gave her a sheepish smile, which made Emory think that maybe he wasn't completely ignorant of her feelings towards him.

"The truth is, I'm retiring in three months," he said in a low voice. "I'm old. I've done my best with Michael and… well, to be completely honest, I'd give anything to see him talk once more before I leave this place forever."

Emory fixed him with a glare. "I will not be _used_ as a way to – "

Loomis interrupted her hastily, "No, no, that's not what I meant at all. I'm offering you a _permanent_ job here."

For a few moments, she was quiet. If she made a wrong move now, it would all be for naught. She would lose the post and any contact with Michael, possibly forever.

"I am flattered by your offer," she said. And she meant it. But still… "What are the terms?"

Irritation flashed in his eyes. "I will gradually let you take over my sessions with Michael, but I will be observing them until I leave."

For a moment, Emory wanted to slap him. She was angry at him, yes, but angry at herself too. She didn't know if she could withstand three more months of acting like a brainless drone in front of Michael. And if she cracked, and Loomis found out what she was really up to, it could very well ruin her career.

She should have acted grateful to avoid arousing any suspicion, but her pride just would not allow it.

Besides, she had her own chips to barter with.

"You know how I feel about Observation," she said with a shrug. "If I take this position, I will have every right to interview Michael without your presence." Oh, she was coming dangerously close to the edge with that one. She could see the indignant anger sparking in Loomis's expression. He was a relatively smart man. He should have known when he was outmatched.

After a tense moment, his expression cooled somewhat.

"Very well. One session a month," he said.

"That's ridiculous and you know it," Emory shot back. She tried to stifle her anger, but it was too late; she had already lost her temper. "I don't want to walk out on this, Dr. Loomis, but I certainly will if you continue to act like you don't need me here."

He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again in sheer shock. It had probably been a very long time since someone had spoken to him like that. Emory regretted her words instantly, and hated herself for feeling so desperate to get this job, to see Michael again.

Loomis nodded, and suddenly his expression was calm. "I see you can hold your own, Dr. Brighton." There was a trace of admiration in his voice, but it was a begrudging trace. "I have sessions with Michael twice a week, on Monday and Thursday. From this point on, you shall have Mondays, but I'll expect you at both."

Pure joy shot through her, threatening to break her stern façade. She managed to nod. Today was Thursday. She had three days until she could see Michael again.

It was going to be a long weekend.


	7. The Epiphany

AN: I want to thank everyone who has reviewed so far. Your comments and support brighten my day. Mirrordjyn, I assure you I do not intend to turn Emory into a killer; she's too strong a person to change that much for Michael. But that's not to say she isn't without some mental issues of her own. And yes, Mr. Riddle, I intend to remedy Laurie's ignorance.

Also (and finally) a romance scene coming up soon, for those of you who just can't stand the sexual tension any longer. ;D

On with the show!

---

Three weeks passed.

October 29th dawned cool and fresh. It was a Monday. Emory's fourth Monday, to be precise. In the three private sessions she'd held with Michael, she had accomplished astonishingly little, and that irritated her to no end. She didn't even count Thursdays; they were merely an irritation to both of them, a play put on for Loomis.

So that afternoon, when she walked into the Conference Room, her eyes fell on Michael's carefully slumped form, and she couldn't help but smile. She noticed how, despite his bowed head, he kept his spine straight, legs stretched in front of him languidly, shoulders back, a posture of defiance if she'd ever seen one. No amount of chains and shackles could strip away that subtle dignity, and when he looked up at her, his eyes were sly and full of unspoken challenges.

Oh, she _had_ learned things about him, about how he worked, how he communicated – it was through his eyes – and she had learned how he had managed to fool so many people before her.

But she still couldn't figure out what _drove_ him. Why he stayed here, why he played mental, when he could so easily escape at any moment he so chose.

_That_ was what bothered her. That was what she hadn't accomplished. It bothered her so much she'd lost sleep over it, tossing and turning and throwing ideas back and forth within her head. And to no avail. She still didn't know. It wasn't his mother. She died a long time ago. It wasn't a sense of conscience or guilt; currently he did not appear to have either, though she was sure he must have at least _some_ conscience, otherwise he could not function at his current level of intelligence.

Loomis had tried to tell her that there was nothing but evil in his eyes. That sometimes a lack of conscience was the worst kind of intelligence, but she disagreed. If one had no conscience, then one would not be able to understand that what one did was wrong.

Michael understood exactly what he had done. Having a conscience and then ignoring it was, in Emory's opinion, much worse than not having a conscience at all.

When Loomis looked in Michael's eyes, he saw nothing but a monster.

When Emory looked into Michael's eyes, she saw much, much more.

But the monster was still there, nonetheless. It was hard to ignore, because every time he looked at her, she recognized in his gaze the shrewd calculation of a predator assessing its prey. It would have been enough to give anyone the shivers.

Anyone else, that is.

She sat down across from him, flipped her notebook open to the notes from her last session with him. There was a bright blue sticky note reminding her that Loomis, who was currently at a lecture in Chicago, had shipped his oldest files about Michael to her office. She peeled it off and stuck it in her lab coat. Michael followed every movement with his eyes.

"Stop doing that," she told him irritably, "if you want to see it, ask for it."

His eyes narrowed, expressing his distaste for her ploy. She didn't usually get short with him about his silence, it was too great a barrier for him to break without risking the total failure of his façade, and she knew that. But that didn't help her frustration.

She tried a different tactic.

"How long has it been since they let you outside?" She schooled her expression to one of innocent curiosity. "Probably since you got too big to handle, hm?"

Michael's gaze was distinctly disapproving. Surely she should know better than to answer her own questions; that was something Loomis would do. And bribery was below her.

All of this, just in his eyes. She only barely managed not to throw her pencil at him. He'd probably just ignore it as a way to belittle her and her anger. And then he'd laugh when Loomis watched the security video and yelled at her for pelting his precious patient with writing utensils.

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "If I'm being juvenile it's because you've driven me to it. I never said I was a patient person." She paused, watched him for a moment, and frowned. "I don't care if you see that as a character flaw." He raised an eyebrow, just a fraction of a millimeter, at her. "It's human nature to want to understand that which we cannot."

The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, an indicating of amusement.

"Of course I don't understand you," she snapped. That's why I'm still here."

This time he raised both eyebrows. Despite herself, Emory grinned. It had gotten to a point now where she could almost hear his voice in her head. He had been starved of communication with others for years, and even for a man of his intelligence, that was a daunting prospect.

"I'll figure you out eventually. You can't keep me here forever."

He accepted her challenge eagerly, or at least to the extent with which he was capable of showing eagerness.

And he shut down completely. His eyes went blank and his face lost all inflection. To Emory, the change was so drastic now that it seemed like his presence had been sucked out of the room, and all she was looking at was a replica of the real man.

Despite her frustration, Emory had to give a nod of approval for his performance.

"May the best man win," she agreed. Then she gathered her things and left the room.

Just outside the Conference room, she paused and watched Michael make his way back to his cell. She couldn't help but admire his skill; he walked exactly the same way Jack walked. If Emory hadn't already figured out what was really behind the façade, she had to grudgingly admit that even _she_ may have been deceived. She shuddered at the prospect of coming to interview him and acting like a normal, unassuming psychologist in the presence of such a man.

She turned away, began the walk to her office, down a flight of stairs, down a hallway, down another hallway, to the far corner of the building. Her office was nestled beside Loomis's, much smaller than his and with a half-rate view, but still a league above the broom closet she'd been stuffed in back at Lazare.

And there, perched innocently on her desk, was a moderately sized package. Emory's heart leapt; she'd completely forgotten about the files Loomis had promised to send her. She dropped her clipboard on her couch and rushed over to the box, ripped it open, and pulled out a pair of three-inch-thick folders covered in dust and age.

She moved over to the couch, sat down, kicked off her shoes, and flipped open the first folder. A picture of 10-year-old Michael glared back at her. Emory blinked. He looked…frightened. She'd seen that photo on the cover of Loomis's book, but she'd never paid much attention to it. His eyes, they were so expressive, even as a child. She set the picture aside, looked to the next piece of paper: a transcript of Loomis's first session with Michael. It was an easy read, and it did not surprise her. Michael was just learning his tricks; he messed up a few times and he played Loomis like a puppet a few times.

Two hours passed in tense, expectant silence. Transcripts of interviews, notes scrawled in Loomis's handwriting, excerpts from articles about Fugue Catatonia, Schizophrenia, MPD, etc. Useless. All useless.

Finally, Emory sighed and shut the folder. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the soft leather couch cushions. Her head felt like it was five times too small for her brain, and it pounded in time with her pulse. She considered writing herself a prescription for vicodin, but dismissed it; Michael would notice if she started taking medication. He'd even noticed the fact that she hadn't been sleeping well lately.

So she gritted her teeth and pulled the second enormous file onto her lap. There was Michael, again, but this time his photo was not clear, but blurry and colorless. Newspaper articles.

Emory frowned. Why would Loomis keep newspaper articles about Michael? They wouldn't have said anything he didn't already know. Unless it was for some purely narcissistic reason.

She smirked. That second option sounded much more likely.

"Why did you do it, Michael?" She whispered. "What set you off? You're so smart…"

A second article, this one detailing the suicide of Deborah Myers. A third article, talking about Michael's trial, calling it grueling and visceral. Emory shook her head and thumbed past it.

And then the fifth article. Nothing special, no pictures, but it was dated November 1st, 1990. That was… that was the day after the murders.

Emory skimmed through the article once, and her pulse quickened. She read through it more slowly a second time, and the blood froze in her veins.

For a few moments, the world stopped breathing. Everything went still, while inside Emory's head, thoughts screamed and danced and shot back and forth. And then her heart beat. Once. Twice. And the world came back to life, and Emory smiled.

_She had it_. She'd figured it out. She'd found the missing piece of the puzzle. She'd cracked him, she'd _finally_ figured it out.

_Bonnie Myers!_

Emory started laughing. She couldn't help it. She'd bested him. She_knew_ what he was doing, and why. All this time, all this energy spent on throwing words at a brick wall, and she'd found the answer in a newspaper article seventeen years old.

She looked back at the article and read aloud, "_Myers was found sitting on his front porch with his baby sister, Bonnie, in his arms._"

She giggled.

"Oh, I have you now, you tricky son of a bitch. You were protecting her, weren't you?" Loomis had never mentioned the girl, probably because he never thought twice about why Michael spared one sibling and murdered the other. That was just the sort of thing he would overlook. But Loomis _had_ been very open about how physically and emotionally abusive Michael's stepfather and older sister had been towards him. Bonnie was the missing piece. Bonnie, who was only a baby at the time, an innocent in a world full of hurtful, hateful people. Michael, oh God, he'd just been trying to protect his little sister.

Emory let the folder slide off her lap and across the floor. She didn't care, she was too dazed with triumph and pain. She hadn't slept in two days. It was time to do that.

As she stretched out on the couch, she sighed, and for the first time in weeks her sigh was not one of frustration, but of relief. She'd just figured out Michael Myers. Oh, Loomis would be so _pissed_.

But she didn't intend to tell Loomis, or anyone for that matter. She wanted to get Michael's opinion.

Emory's eyes drifted closed, and Michael's face rose up in her mind. His eyes were smiling at her, and they were mischievous and delightful and at that point she was too tired to reprimand herself for feeling so attracted to him. She'd been doing a lot of that reprimanding lately. And she was so damn tired…

She fell asleep to blissful, enveloping silence.


	8. Frighteningly Sweet

AN: This was actually the first chapter I ever wrote in this story. It's quite long because I didn't want to cut it in half and give you yet another cliffhanger-in-which-nothing-really-happens-good-heavens-when-will-they-have-sex-already chapter. Hope you enjoy.

-

Emory fell asleep to blissful, enveloping silence.

And she awoke to screams crackling through the two-way monitor on her desk. They were faint and filled with the horror of the dying. She leapt off her couch and was hurrying to the door before she was fully awake, knocking her hip hard against the doorknob as she stumbled out into the brightly lit hallway. Blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes, she moved instinctively towards Michael's room. She knew, as surely as if she could read his thoughts, that he was trying to escape.

Shit.

Emory sprinted through the hallways barefoot, taking stairs two at a time, focused only on getting to Michael before he caused too much damage. Her heart rate was elevated, and adrenaline flooded through her body. Why? Why had he chosen tonight? What had set him off?

Shit.

She shoved the stairwell door open and skidded to a halt.

"Shit," Emory whispered.

Three figures lay sprawled on the white linoleum floor, surrounded by growing puddles of blood. Splashes of red colored the walls, a twisted Pollock mockery. And in the midst of it all, standing tall in pure silence, stood Michael.

His eyes were trained directly on her.

And he wasn't wearing a mask.

Emory felt her heart leap into her throat with what could only be excitement. She walked towards him, drawn like a moth to flame, absently side-stepping the bodies. She could only see his face. He looked like a Viking, rugged and strong, eyes of burning ice, standing over his slain enemy like some ancient heathen god.

Sweet Jesus, he was so _handsome._

She stopped in front of him.

Silence stretched between them, tense with blood and sweat and death. Emory could feel something rising within her, something that filled her mind with giddy, unexplainable delight. She did not fight it.

"Come with me," she told him, tearing her gaze away from his long enough to inspect the carnage. Three dead security guards. They would be discovered soon. Emory looked back to Michael, found his eyes still locked onto her. "I can help you find her."

Michael raised an eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk, and that movement alone was enough to send Emory reeling. She reached out to steady herself against the wall and found her hands slick with blood. She felt laughter bubble up inside her. And she did not fight it.

"Figures," she muttered. "The bodies don't bother me but your facial expression knocks me on my ass." And she laughed again, wiping her hand on her wrinkled lab coat. She turned back to Michael. He lifted his hands to show her his handcuffs. He'd broken the heavy-duty chain that connected them. The look in his eyes, it was almost mischievous.

Emory grinned. She couldn't help herself. Glancing down at the bodies, she saw a ring of keys on the belt of an older man. He was the only one whose face was still intact. Emory unclasped the keyring and walked towards Michael.

He held his hands out expectantly. Emory took hold of his left wrist and quickly unclasped the first shackle. When her fingertips brushed his skin it felt as if she were touching a furnace, a fact that she could only marvel at, as she had never touched him before.

When his hands were free, he took the keys and unlocked the iron shackles that tethered his ankles. His fingers moved with a swiftness that spoke of perfect coordination, and Emory wondered at how she could possibly find that alluring.

He straightened, dropping the keys back onto the guard's body.

Emory nodded. "Let's go." She turned around and made her way back towards the stairwell, not waiting to see if he followed. Something was wrong in her head, and she needed to get some measure of control over it before she did something stupid.

Like help a psychopath escape from an asylum.

She laughed again. Maybe she was just dreaming. She would wake up in her office, on that damn uncomfortable couch, and everything would be normal again.

"I've got to get my car keys," she said, glancing over her shoulder. Michael was following her silently. Either he actually trusted her or he intended to kill her very soon. "Then we'll find you some clothes."

Of course, she never made it to her office. She didn't even make it out of the stairwell.

Michael's hands closed over her shoulders, spun her around and lifted her off her feet, then slammed her none-too-gently back against the concrete wall. He pinned her there with impressive, but not surprising, strength. In the dim light, the only thing Emory could see was the faint outline of his form. She gritted her teeth against the pain in her shoulders and waited.

Michael's fingertips skimmed down her cheek and to her neck, where they paused for a long moment. When they made no further move to crush the life out of her, Emory let her mind relax enough to listen to the rest of her senses.

Heat radiated from him, and everywhere her body was pressed to his she felt hard, unyielding muscle. Her skin was tingling where he touched her, and that sensation flowed through her body to concentrate in her lower abdomen. The sudden, intense ache that blossomed there made her inhale sharply.

His fingertips tapped her neck gently in time with her heartbeat. He was, she realized suddenly, counting her pulse.

"Michael," she whispered. It was all she could bring herself to say. His fingertips slid further down her neck and over her collarbone like hot silk, sending shivers down her spine. She couldn't think… couldn't breathe. He was so close, after so many days looking at him, sitting across from him, wondering what his touch… Oh, Christ. She was out of her mind. She'd done so _well_ ignoring her attraction to him and he was tearing down all those walls as if they were made of Saran Wrap.

He leaned closer, she could feel him moving, pressing himself more tightly against her. She took one deep, shuddering breath.

And then he released her, setting her gently back onto the ground. Emory felt a flash of despair at his absence, followed instantly by anger.

"Don't play games with me, Michael," she snapped. "I'm not your toy."

Was it her imagination, or was that a quick grin that curled on his lips? Emory was about to scold him again, but just as she opened her mouth, he bent down and picked her up, one arm beneath her knees and one at her back. He kicked open the stairwell door and moved swiftly down the deserted hallway.

"Put me down, damn you!" She hissed. "I'm perfectly capable of walking and you don't even know where my office _is_." Emory elbowed him sharply in the sternum, but he merely tightened his grip on her.

And then he walked into the showers.

---

Once she realized what he was doing, Emory's attitude altered completely.

Michael clenched his jaws together. Now she was looking at him with a sly grin on her face, a grin that made him want to ravage her on the spot, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could maintain some semblance of control.

He set her onto her feet only to pin her back against the wall again, sliding his fingers into her hair, soft as sin, and pulling her head back to expose her throat. He bent down and bit her neck with just enough pressure to leave a mark. His message was clear. She belonged to him now.

Emory whimpered. That sound, it communicated need. Desire.

Michael responded with a soft growl, deep in his throat, barely audible, as fire took the place of blood in his veins.

Somehow, he managed to reach out and turn on the shower, while Emory stripped off her lab coat and began unbuttoning her shirt. Michael shrugged out of his ragged bathrobe and dropped it to the floor. When he pulled off his shirt, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emory pause. She was staring at him, and the hungry look on her face... Holy Hell. Without thinking, Michael snatched her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers in a heated kiss. Emory slid her arms around his neck and lifted up onto her toes. She sank her teeth into his bottom lip. Fiery little thing.

Michael reached behind her and unclasped her bra. He stepped back so that he could look at her while she removed her pants and a lacy black thong. She stood before him, completely naked, and looked up into his eyes and smiled. And he could only stare at her, at her curves, at that sinful-soft skin.

She moved forward and slid her fingertips over his chest, down his stomach, to the waistline of his pants, untying them slowly so that she could slip them down off his narrow hips. When she saw him, all of him, she let out a very soft gasp. Something akin to worry flickered in her eyes. Michael glanced down at himself.

Well, yes. He was quite large, wasn't he?

With a wicked look in his eyes, he picked her up and pressed her, much more gently this time, back against the slick tiled wall, just beneath the spray of steaming hot water. And this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He could feel her, hot and wet against him, so achingly close...

He leaned down and kissed her, slid his hands down her waist, to her hips, grabbed her there and shifted her higher so that he could enter her. He looked down at his succubus, saw her eyes closed, head thrown back, holding her breath. It was too much. He slammed himself deep inside her, and all at once felt tight, wet heat surrounding him, fingernails digging sharply into his back. She cried out his name, clutching him tight enough to surprise Michael with her strength. Tight enough to know that he'd hurt her. He paused; it took every ounce of willpower he'd ever had in his life to hold still as she accustomed to his size.

She began to relax, so he slid back out of her, only slightly, and looked down between them at their joined bodies, at the glitter of water that surrounded them, the steam clouding the room. And then, just as she started to whimper, he slammed back into her. Emory gasped, and her hands slid around to capture his face and force him to look her in the eye.

"Stop teasing me, Michael," she whispered. "I will make you suffer for it."

Amusement glittered in his eyes. In any other circumstances, he would have taken her up on that offer, but he was already nearing the end of his control. Her challenge would have to wait until later.

So he leaned down and caught her lips in a kiss, and began pounding wildly into her. She moaned into his lips, and her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper into her with each thrust, digging her nails into his back.

Michael felt himself reaching the edge of an abyss, drowning beneath a wave of pleasure so hot and fierce that it overpowered every barrier in his mind. Emory cried out as she climaxed, called out his name, dug her nails into his back, and Michael exploded within her, thrusting hard and deep, drowning beneath a sea of aching, screaming pleasure.

In the stillness that followed, only the sound of water splashing down over them broke the silence. Michael could feel the ache in his back where Emory's nails had cut crescent-shaped marks into his flesh. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and smiled, breathed her scent deeply. She smelled like autumn, clean and sweet.

"Michael," she murmured, holding him tightly against her. "Michael, we have to leave..." The half-drugged tone of satisfaction in her voice brought forth a fierce wave of pride in him. But he knew they needed to leave. The sooner, the better. Those bodies would only go unnoticed for about an hour, until the next shift came in and the nurse returned from her break.

So he pulled out of Emory's embrace, lowering her to the floor so that he could focus on finishing his shower. He made quick work of it, cleansing himself thoroughly, dragging a comb through his hair and scrubbing the dirt and blood from his hands and feet. All the while, Emory watched him with a languid smile on her face, curled up on the bench.

He liked that look on her face. More than any other expression he'd ever seen, he liked that satisfied cat-with-cream smile. And he liked the appreciation he saw in her eyes.

Irritation stabbed at him briefly as he remembered their encounter in the stairwell. For a while now, he'd had a growing suspicion that Emory could not feel fear. He'd put her in a position where he could crush the life out of her in seconds, and she hadn't shown any signs of panic. In fact, the only elevation in her heart rate had come when he'd trailed his fingertips over her skin.

She was quite possibly the most dangerous person in the world to him right now.

Michael glanced over at her as she stood up and went over to the closet to pull out some towels and a fresh pair of scrubs. She laid them on the bench for Michael and toweled herself off. He watched soft cotton slide over her breasts, her slim stomach, the curve of her hips. And he suppressed a groan.

By the time he finished scrubbing his body clean, Emory was completely dressed. She discarded her lab coat; it had a bright smear of blood from where she'd wiped her hands. Michael dried himself off and slipped into clean scrubs. He shut the water off.

Silence fell.

Emory moved towards him, looked up into his eyes, and he saw curiosity there.

"It's called Adaerexia," she said softly. "It's characterized by the inability to feel anxiety or fear. I've been this way since I was a child."

Michael blinked at her, marveling at how perceptive she was. A twinge of unease lit into his mind. Yes, she was incredibly dangerous. In that moment, he felt the absence of his masks like an intense ache within him. They were his security blanket; no matter how meaningless they'd been when he'd first started using them as a way to distract Loomis from asking difficult questions, they had at some point become a part of him. He hated that part of him. It was weak. He had been waiting to take those damn things off for _years_, and yet… He had almost faltered, he had almost not been able to remove it in time. Emory had crashed out of the stairwell only moments after he had ripped the paper shield from his face and tossed it into his room.

The look on her eyes when she'd seen him, though, had made it more than worthwhile.

"I think it has something to do with what my brother has," she continued, turning away to gather Michael's old clothes and shove them deep into the towel closet. "Fugue Disorders are very diverse illnesses, and can appear in varying degrees of intensity." Michael moved up behind her so that when she turned around, she nearly bumped into him.

He leaned down and kissed her. He wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps because he was so starved of affection and contact. Perhaps because it would reinforce his hold over her.

Perhaps because he knew it would make her smile

It did exactly that, despite the shadow of sadness in her eyes. He could taste her on his lips, something sweet and frighteningly alluring.

Emory took his hand and led him out of the shower.

-

_AN: Yes, that was a totally shameless Slevin tribute. 3 Let me know what you think!_


	9. Freedom

_AN: Sorry for the wait, I'm juggling three other stories at the moment and each one likes to demand its own personal me-time. I'll have the next chapter up shortly._

-

It occurred to Michael as he followed Emory obediently to her office that he actually knew very little about her. He didn't even know if he was going to let her live through the next hour. Well, no, that wasn't true. She'd earned at least two hours of life. But he wasn't at all sure how he felt about her, and that did not bode well for his little psychologist. He had never been able to control lust, and now it filled him like wildfire with every movement of her hips, every breath of scent that he caught from her. She looked at him and his pulse sped. He was relatively sated.

For now.

In her office, Emory looked at home. While she searched for her keys and shoes, Michael examined the documents haphazardly strewn around her couch. It was Loomis's collection of newspaper articles. Michael raised an eyebrow. So that was how she'd figured it out.

Just in time, too.

Emory was standing beside him, keys in hand, watching him stare at the files. She didn't say anything as he turned his head and looked down at her. She didn't say anything when he lifted his hand to brush his fingertips over her cheek.

So beautiful. When had he started thinking of her as beautiful? No one had been beautiful since his mother had died. She had figured him out so easily, seen right through him, and now she was wriggling her way past his barriers, past all the defenses he'd built up to keep himself sane during his incarceration.

And the funny thing was: she wasn't even _trying_. She wasn't being a psychologist anymore; she wasn't trying to understand him, to understand his motives.

She already knew. She knew everything.

"Don't look at me like that, Michael," she said quietly. She reached up and took his hand, drew it away from her face. "I know you don't trust me."

Was that…hurt in her tone? He thought he recognized it beneath that cool, sweet voice and those pale gray eyes.

Michael looked away. He couldn't help it. He hadn't felt chastised in more than seventeen years. He didn't think he_ could_ be chastised anymore. And yet Emory had made him feel almost… remorseful for not trusting her.

"Haddonfield," she said, drawing his attention back to her. "Is that where you want to go?"

Slowly, as if he was waking from a daze, he nodded. And she reached out, took his hand and led him out of her office. The lights in the hallway pierced his eyes like needles, but he ignored them. Emory led him out the back way, avoiding main entrances and security cameras. She did this so well he began to wonder if she had planned her escape route beforehand.

Stairwell, hallway, door, door, stairwell... And then, like a screaming slap in the face, fresh air. Michael stopped. He had to. He hadn't breathed fresh air in so long he'd forgotten what it felt like. For a few moments, he was completely engulfed in sensations, from the cool kiss of the wind against his face to the rustle and chirp of fauna in the woods that surrounded the building.

Oh, God, it felt amazing to be free.

Emory tugged on his hand. He wasn't sure why he'd let her lead him like a stray puppy; submissive behavior had never appealed to him. But he supposed this was a side-effect of being completely enthralled by a woman. If so, it was small enough that he could live with it. At least for a while.

He moved again, one foot in front of the other, focused on everything at once, stretching his memory to its limits in his attempt to remember everything about this moment. How beautiful the stars were, glittering like silent gods in the sky. The smell of autumn, clean and sweet. The warm touch of the woman holding his hand tightly in her own.

Michael tilted his head down at her, watched her walking with that smooth, confident gait. She was a magnificent creature, all soft curves and sweet skin. He was reminded of how she smelled by the very air itself, and it hit him that she smelled like autumn. Like freedom.

They stopped at what Michael assumed was her car. It certainly matched her perfectly; it was a pretty little thing, all sleek silver and smooth charcoal leather and shining obsidian accents. Michael had never been the type of male that fawned over cars; he hadn't even seen one for the better part of two decades. But he knew that it was nice, and that Emory had good... and expensive taste.

The logo on the dashboard in front of him was circular, with the letters B, M, and W embossed in the leather. Michael closed his eyes as the engine sang to life, felt the vibrations ebb through his body. Ah, it was good to be free.

And so, just as the mangled bodies of four security guards were being discovered at Smith's Grove Sanitarium in the early morning hours of October 30th, Michael Myers was riding off into the proverbial sunset, towards Haddonfield, Illinois.

And Bonnie Myers.


	10. Thee to Kneel

When Emory finally passed the sign emblazoned 'Welcome to Haddonfield!' she let out a heavy sigh. She had to remind herself that this was only the beginning, that more problems still lay ahead. But she was so tired. All she wanted was to curl up in her bed – a bed, any bed would do – and sleep for days.

But the reason she couldn't was sitting patiently at her side, staring out the window with a skeptical expression in his eyes.

Emory had realized, on the long, silent drive, that if she did not try her damndest to control Michael's impulse to kill, she would never be able to live with herself. She may have gone slightly mad, but that did not mean she had lost her conscience; she simply could _not_ let him wander off to slaughter at will, and though he did not seem inclined to do so at the moment, she had no idea how Haddonfield would affect his psychological state.

But she got a strong hint when they turned into a quiet suburb, passing house after peaceful little house, and Michael suddenly reached out – fast as lightning – and grabbed her arm in a vicious, crushing grip. Emory slammed on the breaks, cursing.

"Damnit, Michael, don't _do_ that!" She hissed, casting him a withering glare. But he wasn't paying attention, his eyes were trained directly across the street. His fingers dug tighter into her arm, and she winced. 

At first glance, the house didn't give her reason to pause, but when a bolt of pain lanced up her arm as Michael tightened his grip, Emory took a longer look. It was old, run down and clearly abandoned, with flaking paint and boarded windows. A rusty chain-link fence ran around the perimeter of the property.

With a flash of shock, Emory realized that she recognized that house from the piles of newspaper clippings Loomis had sent her; that was Michael's old house.

Shit.

"Michael," she said softly, but he wasn't listening to her. His gaze was locked on that house, and his eyes had a disturbingly hollow look to them. Emory reached up and covered his hand with hers, gritting her teeth against the bruising pain. The moment her fingertips brushed over his, he blinked, glanced down at her, and slowly released her arm. The look he sent her was half-apologetic and half-amused.

Emory sighed.

"Don't go there yet," she suggested. When his eyes flickered with displeasure, she frowned. "I'm not saying you _can't_. I know better than to forbid you to do anything. Just... not yet, Michael." When she saw his eyes go hard, she added in a soft voice, "please."

Michael watched her for a long moment, and Emory got the distinct impression that he was thinking about a great deal more than just his old home. And he was not happy with his own thoughts.

Emory bit her lip, because she hadn't wanted to say this to him yet; she didn't know how far she could push him. But it had to be said.

"I can't help you kill innocent people. I won't."

He tilted his head at her, but his eyes burned dark with anger.

"I never said _they_ were innocent!" She snapped. She had no qualms with his past. Instantly, his expression eased. "But if you go in there now, you'll lose yourself. And I will do everything in my power to stop you."

There. It had been said. Now he knew that he did not have free reign; she had rules and he was going to have to play by them. Because they both knew that she was the most dangerous person in the world to him, the only one who understood how he thought, almost before he thought it. She knew how he worked, where he would go, how he would kill...

He did not like that. At all. In fact, his entire body went rigid with fury, the most blatant show of emotion she'd ever seen in him. He clenched his jaw, and she saw his lips thin as he pressed them together tightly.

For some absurd reason, Emory felt a wave sadness rush through her. It surprised her. She hadn't realized how attached she'd gotten to him.

In the brief seconds between her words and his actions, Emory wondered how he was going to kill her. She had a very vivid imagination, and so did he, but she figured it would be quick and clean. 

And then he was moving; swift and incredibly strong, he reached over and pulled her onto his lap as if she weighed no more than a doll. He slid one arm around her waist and pulled her so tight against him that she couldn't breathe.

And he kissed her. A hard, demanding and angry kiss, but one that sent fire raging through her body, melting her as if she was nothing more than wax.

The small part of her mind that managed to remain cognizant wondered at his motives. Why hadn't he killed her? What had caused such a change in his attitude?

As his kisses continued, trailing over her neck, her shoulders, torture by hot silk, she felt his anger drain away. He grazed her skin with his teeth, gentle and aware, and his grip on her loosened so that he could slide his hands over any part of her that he wished to touch.

Emory willed her body to listen to her mind, tried to ignore the glorious torment so that she could push herself away from him long enough to look into his eyes and see what he was thinking. He allowed this, and the amusement on his face told her that he was only humoring her; he could keep her enthralled for as long as he wished and they both knew it.

But she saw something else in his eyes: acceptance. She intended to _try_ to keep him on a very short leash, and he was alright with that.

For now.

Emory leaned closer to him and brushed her lips over his in a featherlight kiss. A thank you.

Michael released her. That challenge burned in his eyes, the one that made her heart jumpstart in her chest. He picked her up and slid her deftly back into the driver's seat. One corner of his mouth was turned up – just barely – in a smirk. 

Emory sighed. She was just tired. She was more than capable of holding her own against her silent companion, but she was exhausted and her body was running on Empty. And from the look in his eyes, Michael knew that.

So she drove out of the neighborhood, a few miles down the road and pulled into the parking lot of a small but well-kept motel. Michael got out of the car and disappeared into the trees while Emory went inside and got them a room.

The elderly Indian man who ran the hotel escorted her to the second floor, sent her a smile and a nod and left her in peace.

Once inside the room, she dropped her purse on the table, walked over and unlocked the sliding glass door that led onto the balcony. Michael climbed over the railing moments later and joined her in the room.

"I'm going to sleep," she said, kicking off her shoes and pulling her hair out of the knot she'd tied it in earlier that morning. The sun had only just begun to rise in the eastern sky, washing the room in pale blue light.

Michael watched her as she crawled onto the bed and curled up on a pillow. Emory closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.

And then warmth enveloped her, and one large arm slid around her waist. Michael pulled her against him, curled around her. She was too tired to wonder at this. The sound of his breathing lulled her mind into peaceful blankness.

And together they slept.


	11. To Fall

_She was in Hell. People surrounded her, but they were warped and distorted in her eyes, more like demons, or reflections off a funhouse mirror. Red lights flashed everywhere, disorienting, causing her to stumble repeatedly. Hands brushed at her, clutched at her, tried vainly to hold her back, but she broke through them, past their whispering voices, the cries and pleads that tried to keep her away._

_She broke through. Past the flimsy barriers, over soft rustling grass, brick steps, a door, a hallway._

_She stopped._

_Someone, some sick bastard, had thrown red paint all over the walls of her living room. Her mother was going to be so pissed. If this was Damien's idea of a joke, she was going to rip him in half when she found him._

_Then the smells hit her, a wretched coppery smell, the sweeter stench of death._

_That wasn't red paint. It was blood._

_There were people laying on the floor. Two of them. White tape outlined their bodies. Occasionally, a lightning-bright flash of light exploded somewhere behind her, illuminating the faces of the dead in ghastly contrast._

_Oh god, _mama!

_Emory sank to her knees, and the carpet squished beneath her weight. Her sight went fuzzy, her body felt as though she was moving through maple syrup._

_She had never felt fear before, never since she could remember. But the feeling that blossomed in her chest was much worse. It crushed everything inside her, crushed the breath from her lungs, the blood from her veins, crushed all her thoughts into a faint buzzing sound. She could catch whispers from the demon in her mind, the one that laughed and danced with glee. It murmured to her, full of pride and maybe a hint of jealousy._

_An instant later, Emory took a deep breath._

_And she screamed._

When she opened her eyes, she was back at the motel, and Michael was glaring at her with an intensely bemused expression in his eyes. His hand was clamped tightly over her mouth. Emory reached up and pulled his hand away; it moved without resistance, but there was a flicker of distrust in his eyes.

"I haven't had that nightmare in years," she whispered. Curiosity flickered in her companion. Emory only shook her head.

He moved away, to the sliding glass doors, and stood in a pool of warm sunlight. The alarm clock beside the bed read 2:47 in the afternoon. She looked back over at him; he had closed his eyes. Emory smiled.

He was basking. Dark golden hair fell to his shoulders in golden waves. He reminded her of a male lion, proud and quiet, sitting patiently on a plateau in the African savannah. King of everything. So confident.

"I'm going to take a shower," she told him, ignoring the sly look he shot at her from over his shoulder. "Then I need to go do some research."

His eyes questioned her. _Where?_

"Livingston County Courthouse," she replied. "They'll have Bonnie's adoption records."

One eyebrow lifted slightly in skepticism.

Emory smiled thinly. "I'm more than capable of handling a courthouse clerk," she stated. There was no arrogance in her voice, she was stating simple fact. This would not be the first time she'd exercised her almost inhuman determination on an interest that was... not quite legal.

When she went into the bathroom, he didn't follow her, as she'd half expected. Instead, he returned his gaze to the bright world of sunlight that had been taken away from him so long ago. Emory smiled to herself. He deserved what little peace he could find.

She made quick work of her shower; no need to linger and remind herself of the one she'd had the night before. It would only frustrate her. She still longed for his touch, a desire that was so strong it was almost painful. How could she let herself get so attached to him?

A family of violent rats had nested in her hair while she slept, so it took her a painfully long amount of time to tame all those black curls into some semblance of neatness. And by the time she'd done that, her stomach was beginning to yell at her, for it had not been fed since lunch, yesterday.

She slipped back into the dress pants and black blouse she'd been wearing last night at the hospital and opened the bathroom door. Michael was still standing exactly where he had been earlier, still soaking up the afternoon light. She watched him for a moment. His body was silhouetted against the sun, head tilted slightly back, eyes closed, hands relaxed at his sides. Emory felt drawn to him, and she had to smother the sudden and powerful urge to walk across the room and wrap her arms around his waist. It was ridiculous. She was a reasonably sane person. She could not become emotionally involved with a psychopath.

Still, the desire to touch him tingled through her body. She bit her lip to keep herself grounded. As if sensing her inner turmoil, Michael turned and met her gaze. His eyes were smiling. He looked content. She could not help but wonder if her presence contributed to his mood. She hated herself for hoping.

She grabbed her purse, trying her best to ignore the invitation in his gaze. Her heart fluttered with delight, but she couldn't control her heart. She had an iron grip on her mind, and she'd be damned before she let her mind fall for him.

As she crossed the room to get her keys, Michael reached out and caught her; one arm casually wrapped around her waist and drew her up against him. She thought about fighting but dismissed the idea immediately; fighting Michael would be much like trying to fight a brick wall.

He sensed her hesitation, loosened his grip enough to turn her around to face him. He placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her head so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

He tilted his head at her. Why was she so angry?

She considered telling him the truth, but decided that she wasn't ready to put herself in such a vulnerable position. She considered snapping, taking her frustration out on him, but then she imagined the look on his face as pleasure dissolved into cold fury. The image sent a bolt of pain through her chest, and it made her want to scream and cry at the same time.

Because at that moment, she knew that she would never be able to take any happiness away from him.

She was deeper than she'd first thought.

Shit.

"I'm hungry," she said. "I get irritable when I'm hungry."

A look of supreme amusement flickered across his face. Oh, he knew very well how irritated she could get when she was 'hungry'. Emory cocked an eyebrow up at him. Then a new thought hit her.

"You haven't had real food in years, Michael." He blinked at her words. "What would you like?"

He tried to pretend that he had no idea what she was talking about, but since she already knew how damn smart he was, she simply ignored his ploy, squeezed out of his grip, dropped her purse and ran over to the bed, extracting the phonebook from a drawer in the nightstand.

"Don't play dumb with me," she scolded playfully as he sat down next to her on the bed. His weight made a dent in the mattress that pulled her closer against him. "Tell me what you want."

In one casual motion, Michael reached out, pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. Desire blossomed within her, coiling tight in her abdomen, forcing a soft moan from her throat. His lips caressed hers, soft and warm and so expressive.

"I meant what you want to _eat_," she muttered when he broke the kiss to graze his teeth over her neck. She could almost hear his laughter in her head. But God, sometimes she felt like she might go insane if she didn't hear him speak. What did his voice sound like? Would she ever hear it?

He released her from his seduction by unwrapping his arms from around her and allowing her to slide off his lap. She stood, straightened her blouse, trying her damndest to ignore his hungry gaze as it followed her every move.

"I'll bring something back for you," she told him, picking up her keys and dropping them into her purse. "It shouldn't take me long to get into the courthouse. I'll be back before sunset." She paused, then in a softer voice: "Will you still be here?"

Michael stood up, went over to her, leaned down and kissed her. Just a quick, simple kiss. A promise.

"Thank you," she whispered, bringing her hands up to press them against his chest. He was so warm. So gentle.

Her mind flailed.

She turned and left the room.


	12. For Michael

_AN: I just wanted to thank everyone who's reviewed in my absence. I'm doing my best, I promise. I hope you love this story as much as I do._

-

Haddonfield Memorial Hospital was a small facility compared to St. Lazare. It consisted of two or three pale, brick buildings and acres of empty parking lots. It looked to Emory as if this hospital did not see a great deal of action. Bad news for her; the staff would be more familiar with each other than in a larger hospital.

She parked near the loading dock, in a cluster of cars that belonged to employees. She left her purse in the car, kept only her keys.

Casting a quick glance around her, she walked quickly to the loading dock and checked the door. Locked, damnit. Of course nothing would be easy for her. She'd used up all her luck getting Michael out of Smith's Grove.

She moved around to the front of the hospital, schooled her face into that mask of professional solemnity that so many doctors liked to wear, and pushed through the front doors. She gave a small nod to the receptionist, who looked for a moment like she thought she might say something to Emory, but quickly thought better of the idea when she saw the determination written on Emory's face.

She turned a corner, walked calmly down a hallway, and then lit up a flight of stairs, down another hallway, looking for all the world as if she belonged right where she was. In her mind, she was mapping out the hospital, trying to determine the most likely location for a storage room.

A young man stepped into the hallway. He was wearing a police uniform, gun belted to his waist, handcuffs glittering in the fluorescent lights. Emory's pace did not slow, but God she wished more than anything that she still had her lab coat; strangers were much less likely to question a doctor who looked hell bent on getting to her destination.

"Excuse me, miss," the young man said, and Emory stopped. She turned to look up at him and smiled. He smiled back, bright and unwary.

"Can I help you with something, officer?" She wondered. He tilted his head at her, and a few strands of honey brown hair fell into his eyes.

"You look familiar. Have we met before?" There was no animosity in him, but his curiosity was just as damning. She felt her limbs go cold with the closest thing to fear she had ever been able to feel. He recognized her. Somehow, Loomis had figured her out. This man, this cop, had seen her before. She figured she had maybe two minutes before he made the connection.

"You may have seen me around, I work in pediatrics." She paused, glanced down at her watch, and frowned. "I'm sorry, I'm late for a meeting."

Adrian's smile faded a bit. "I'll see you around, then."

_No, you won't._

"I hope so." She gave him her most dazzling smile, the one she usually saved for Michael. And then she turned and started walking. She didn't need to tell herself to walk slowly, because she didn't have the fundamental fight or flight instinct screaming at her to run. It just hadn't been programmed into her. She had nothing to fight except basic common sense.

As soon as she felt she could, she turned a corner and slipped into an empty room. She pulled off her shoes and waited.

Sure enough, a few moments later, that damn cop walked by, talking in a low voice on his radio. He didn't seem to be in any hurry, but the fact that he'd followed her did not bode well for her at all.

Shit.

Emory waited, counted thirty seconds, and poked her head out of the room. The hallway was empty. Not a second later, she darted out and sprinted down the way she'd come, slid around the corner, glanced left, right, no one looking… And shoved the door to the storage room open.

"This is getting goddamn ridiculous, Emory," she told herself in a low voice, but there was a smile curling her lips; she was standing in the treasure room, with rows upon rows of medical supplies, medicines, tools, scrubs, towels.

She padded down the aisles, scanning the supplies, until she found the first item she needed: a small white towel. A few rows down, she found a white lab coat and a surgical gown.

Most of her time was spent looking for the last item she needed. No such luck, of course. Hospitals these days rarely kept dangerous, combustible substances sitting out in unlocked storage rooms for anyone to come by and snatch. So Emory shrugged into her lab coat and dropped her keys into the pocket, stuffing the towel into another pocket. She draped the surgical gown over her arm and left the relative safety of the storage room for much deeper waters.

A few minutes later, she was standing in front of the pharmacy counter, looking as exhausted as possible, rubbing her temples slowly.

"Chloroform?" The young nurse wondered, eyeing Emory with great curiosity. "I'm not even sure we have any. What do you need it for?"

"My seizure patient just got transferred in from Lazare. It's the only thing I can use on him by order of his doctor."

"His doctor ordered it? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Emory snapped. "I can't go against my superiors."

The nurse narrowed her eyes at Emory, but she didn't say anything in response.

"I.. Look, I'm sorry," Emory said in a tired voice. "My son kept me up all night; he caught that stomach bug that's been going around."

Instantly, suspicion melted into sympathy. The change was drastic enough that Emory had to work to suppress her triumphant smile. When the nurse returned with the small bottle of Chloroform, labeled toxic and hazardous, Emory took it without anger and sighed.

"Thanks," she murmured.

"Hope your son feels better," the nurse replied.

Emory nodded. She turned away and walked slowly to the nearest fire escape. Once out of sight, of course, she launched down the stairs at a dizzying pace, skipping steps, pausing every now and then to listen for signs of being followed. She was just being paranoid, of course.

She stepped out into the parking lot, glanced around for the cop who may or may not have recognized her, and walked quickly to her car. She slid into the driver's seat and finally let herself breathe without fear of drowning.

-

The next step was simple. She stopped at a local drug store and purchased a cheap Halloween mask. She chose the Bride of Frankenstein. Then she pulled into a parking spot a few blocks from the County Courthouse, grabbed her things and stuffed them into her purse, and walked swiftly towards her destination.

She walked swiftly into the Courthouse, drawing on the mask of determination that had helped her so often in the past. The clerk at the desk glanced up with disinterest, and then back down at her gossip magazine. Emory's gaze slid swiftly over the plaque on the wall that stated the locations of every department in the small Courthouse. Finally a lucky break; Records were located in the basement.

In the stairwell, just outside the Records Office, she waited, listening for visitors. No voices. She pulled out the bottle of Chloroform and soaked the small white towel with the sweet smelling liquid. Emory turned her head away to avoid inhaling the fumes. Then she sat her purse down in the corner of the stairwell, shrugged out of her lab coat, and pulled the Bride of Frankenstein mask over her head.

She walked into the Records Office as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do with a Halloween mask on. She kept the towel in her hand down by her side, out of sight. A quick glance around the room proved her correct; she was alone with the clerk.

The young woman behind the counter looked up, did a double-take, and frowned.

"Can I help you?" She asked in a deliberately unimpressed tone.

"Are you pregnant?" Emory demanded. The girl's eyes widened in surprise and outrage.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm doing a poll."

The woman narrowed her eyes, tilted her head. A smirk passed over her lips.

"No, I'm not pregnant."

"Are you positive?"

"Absolutely one-hundred percent positive."

Instantly, Emory reached up and grabbed a handful of the girl's hair, pressed the towel to her face, and braced herself. The girl struggled, flailed, knocked a stack of papers off the desk, but Emory was stronger and well practiced in dealing with struggling patients from the mental hospitals she'd worked in.

A handful of seconds passed, and then another, and the struggling slowed, and then ceased altogether, and the girl slumped silently to the floor.

Emory pulled off her mask and sighed. She went out into the stairwell and grabbed her purse, brought it into the office and locked the deadbolt on the office door. Then she moved around behind the desk, arranged the girl in a more comfortable position, and picked up the files she'd knocked onto the floor.

She rummaged around in the drawers until she found the keys to the room behind them, where confidential records are kept.

It didn't take her long, because she knew exactly who she was looking for, and she had a general idea of Bonnie's birth date. A few minutes later, she was holding a thin manila folder in her hands, and inside that folder there was a picture of a smiling baby girl with wispy blonde hair. Emory read through the information, read through it a second time, and then put the folder back.

She locked the room behind her, put the keys back where she found them, grabbed her purse and the chemical-soaked towel and unlocked the office door. She stuffed the mask into her purse and headed up the stairs.

She stepped out into the dying sunlight and breathed deeply the smell of autumn. She thought of Michael, and joy swelled up within her before she could control it. She was going home to him. She had no doubt that he would keep his promise.

Emory took her time walking back to her car. Everything she'd done today, she'd done for Michael. A few days ago, she had been firm in her belief that she could withstand him, and now, she was on the edge of an abyss, balanced precariously between love and her old friend, common sense. And the scary thing was that common sense was fast becoming an obstacle in her pursuit of what she truly wanted.

God, she wanted to love him. How sick was that? She wanted to be able to fall in love with a killer. A man labeled 'psychopath' by everyone who'd ever met him. She wanted to ignore her common sense, tell it to shove off, so that she could relax in his arms without doubt whispering in the back of her mind.

As she walked, the sickly sweet Chloroform wafted up from her purse. She turned her head. At least she hadn't hurt anyone. She'd broken numerous laws, but that was nothing new. She wasn't perfect, never had been.

Excitement welled up within her as she remembered Michael basking in the sunlight earlier that day. The excitement made her want to cry. She was losing this battle, losing it fast.

"Food," she said to herself as she slid into the driver's seat of her car. She had to bring him food, and all she'd had to eat today was a granola bar she'd grabbed at a gas station on her way to the hospital. So she would go get him food. And then she would head back to the hotel.

God help her, she couldn't wait.

-

_AN: Emory asked if the clerk was pregnant because Chloroform has been shown to cause miscarriages in lab tests on mice. She was just being careful. Questions? Comments? Review, my loves. Please._


	13. Gravity

_AN: So sorry for the wait. To apologize, I have written a nice, long chapter for you. Enjoy!_

-

Too restless to sleep, Michael passed the rest of the afternoon and evening wandering through the woods and suburbs of Haddonfield, wondering at how little the town had changed since his imprisonment seventeen years ago. Wondering at how blissfully ignorant the town remained to his presence now. This amused him; Loomis knew how dangerous he was. Surely the old man would have contacted the local police. In fact, it wouldn't have surprised Michael to see Loomis running screaming through the streets with his arms flailing and guns blazing.

He avoided his old neighborhood for one specific reason: Emory had asked him not to go there. The fact that he had decided to abide by her suggestion spoke volumes of his growing feelings for her. He could not deny them, these new emotions were strong and potent and intoxicating, and he was no more capable of controlling them than he was of speaking.

At least, not yet.

Around sunset, Michael returned to the hotel, climbing to the second floor balcony and letting himself into the room. His stomach growled angrily, but he ignored it. He could go days without food if he needed to; he'd tested his physical limits over the years, honing his strengths and taking note of any weaknesses. They were few and far between.

He sat on the bed, glancing at the bathroom. A smile lit in his eyes. He should really take a shower, he was filthy from trudging through the woods all day. So he stood and made his way into the bathroom, shut the door and pulled off his scrubs. After turning on the shower, he looked at his reflection. He did not see himself as handsome, he never had. He spent so little time thinking about himself as a man that he'd begun to imagine himself as nothing more than scrubs and a mask.

But he did look at his face. He wondered at how easily Emory could read him, how she could see his thoughts in his eyes, when so many before her could not. It was remarkable, how easily she had insinuated herself into his life.

Now, he looked forward to seeing her, enough that his heart rate increased when he thought about it.

Steam fogged the mirror, so he turned and stepped into the shower, and as soon as the water hit him, his mind snapped back to the memory of _her_. Black silk, pale skin, sweet lips. Autumn. Freedom. The memory was so intense he reached out to steady himself against the slick, tiled wall, eyes closed, head back. God, she was intoxicating.

The memory passed, and Michael opened his eyes. He half-expected her to be standing in the bathroom with that sly smile on her lips, but she wasn't there. He would have known if she had returned.

He finished his shower, refusing to think of the meaning behind the sudden, overwhelming memories that had slammed into him. If he didn't think about it, he wouldn't have to recognize what it meant.

The motel's towels were ridiculously tiny; he had to use three of them just to dry himself off. And then another to rub over his hair. When he looked at himself again in the steamed mirror, his features were blurred and distorted. He looked like a blonde ghost.

He put the dirt-stained scrubs back on, because the only other option was waiting around naked until Emory got back with more clothes. And as amusing as the idea was, he just couldn't bring himself to go through with it. So he sat on the bed by the window and waited.

-

When she pulled into the motel parking lot, Emory felt a wry smile curl her lips, a smiled mixed of joy and irony. The closer she got to him, the easier it was becoming to stifle that little nagging voice in the back of her head that told her she could _not_ fall in love with Michael Myers.

She grabbed the Wal-Mart bags and the Bride of Frankenstein mask out of the back seat and locked the car. Her parking spot was as far from the road as she could get, but it was still easily within sight of anyone who happened to be looking for a 2007 silver BMW 335xi. It was not the _most_ conspicuous car she could have gotten, but it was damn close. As she turned and headed up the stairwell, she cursed her undying love for BMW.

When she reached her room, she paused, trying to get her heart rate under control. It was no use; her heart wasn't interested in listening to reason. Not when the source of all its excitement was on the other side of that door.

She unlocked the deadbolt and walked in. The first thing she noticed was the smell of shampoo and water; he must have taken a shower while she was gone. The second thing she noticed was Michael, sitting motionless at the foot of the bed, watching her with solemn blue eyes. His hair was wet and tousled.

He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

Emory shut the door and locked the deadbolt, and walked towards him. He didn't look menacing, in fact, he didn't look threatening at all. And that wasn't just her Adaerexia talking. He looked… like a man. A quiet, thoughtful man.

She sat her bags down on the table by the bed and pulled out a pair of charcoal sweatpants and a white long-sleeved t-shirt and tossed them over at him. He glanced down at them once and returned his gaze to her. She pulled out a plastic box and sat it down on the table; she'd gotten a roasted chicken from the Super Wal-Mart's deli. And then she pulled out a phonebook.

"Give me a minute," she said, and she sat down at the head of the bed and started flipping through the phonebook. She could feel his eyes on her like a physical force, a weight pressing down on her shoulders. She did her best to ignore it, focusing on her search through the waif-thin pages of the directory. Her heart was twisted with the beginning aches of despair.

It only took her a few moments to find them. Donald and Renee Strode. Same as the names she'd found on Bonnie's adoption records. Emory felt like she might scream. She didn't want to look up and meet his gaze. She didn't want to know and yet she did. This was what Michael wanted more than anything in the world. And now that he had it…

Would he stay?

"I found her address," she said softly, careful not to let her emotions seep into her voice. Finally, she looked up at him, found him stone-still, staring at her as if she'd just grown another head.

Emory slid the phone book over to him and pointed at their names. At their address. His eyes flickered down to the text, lingered there for a few seconds, and then dismissed it and returned his gaze to hers.

She dared let herself hope. She felt it swell within her, like some toxic and addictive drug. She wanted him to stay so badly she couldn't stand it. She wanted him to choose her over Bonnie. She wanted him...

Oh, God.

What had happened to her?

She really wanted him to stay with her. As if they could have a normal life. As if he was a normal man.

As her mind registered her emotions, and it realized that she was in serious danger of falling completely in love with him, her common sense snapped back to life within her.

Shit.

If she wanted him to stay it meant she was too far gone to save herself now. She was falling for this… this _murderer_. If he left, it would be for the best. If he left she would no longer be in danger of losing her heart to him. And her soul, and probably her life.

She had to make him leave.

"Go," she commanded, breaking the silence. "I won't try to stop you." He raised an eyebrow at her, both curious and amused.

But he did not move.

"Michael," Emory snapped, but she didn't get much further than that. Suddenly he was on top of her, and she was pinned flat against the bed, crushed beneath him. She glared up at him, as his hands found hers and pinned them above her head. His eyes were laughing at her. Was she that transparent? Or was he finally through with her? If she died, she would leave nothing behind but a psychopathic little brother and her parents' graves. She would not be missed.

And if she died, she wouldn't have to worry about being in love with him. She had nothing to lose. She was not afraid of death.

Whatever he saw in her eyes sobered his amusement instantly. His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head down at her, and loosened his grip on her hands. She said nothing, just waited. For a kiss or a killing blow, whichever he chose. In all her life, she had never felt so incapacitated by her inability to be afraid.

In a flash, Michael hauled her up off the bed and set her on her feet before him. He towered over her, dark and ominous.

"Just go," she muttered, turning her head away from him to stare out at the dying sunlight. Fitting.

Michael reached out and caught her chin, gently turning her head back and forcing her to make eye contact. She frowned up at him, but she could no more answer the questions in his gaze than she could fly to the moon.

"I don't know what you want from me," she said tonelessly, reaching up to grab his wrist and pull away from his gentle grasp. She saw anger flicker in his gaze, cooling those pale blue eyes. He took a step towards her, then stopped. He glanced down at the phonebook, then back up at her, and the anger dissolved from his face to be replaced by understanding and sheer amazement.

Emory's heart sank. God, he was smart.

This time, he reached out and slid his hand around the back of her head, entangling his fingers in her hair, and pressed his lips to hers in a soft, slow kiss. He had made his choice.

He had chosen her.

Emory felt her heart break in her chest, filled to bursting with a potent mixture of joy and despair. Before she could stop them, tears fell from her tightly closed eyes. Michael hesitated, looking down at her with concern. After a moment he lifted a hand and brushed them gently away. Then he disentangled his hands from her hair and pulled her gently towards the bed.

-

When he kissed her, his mind stopped working. It was a terrifying feeling, to be so blank and open. There was nothing else in this entire world that could do that to him. It was more than just lust, now. Lust could not erase all thoughts from his mind and leave only raw emotion and desire. Lust could not make him forget about Bonnie and all the injustices of the world.

Only Emory could do that, now.

He laid her down on the bed and crawled on top of her, letting his eyes wander almost reverently over every inch of her body. And then, once he was satisfied that she was absolutely perfect, he began to undress her. This was not the same blind, half-mad rush to get naked as it had been the first time, in the shower. No. This time, it was slow and erotic. This time Michael was in total control. But as he unbuttoned her shirt, he met her eyes, and the look he saw there told him he might not be in control for much longer.

His lips twitched, aching to smile.

As he slid a lacy black thong down her legs, tossing them carelessly across the room, he looked down at her, naked beneath him, and his heart clenched in his chest. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And she was smiling a smile that was meant only for him. When she sat up, she slid her hands beneath his shirt, over his chest, through soft blonde curls there. Her touch stilled his heart. He had never been touched like that before, it was so very intimate. At first he didn't like it; he shied away from that intimacy. But then she slid his shirt over his head, and her fingertips danced over his skin to rest at his waist, where she began slowly untying the knot in his scrubs.

And then, finally, blessedly, his pants were off, and he was crawling towards her, pressing her down into the soft bed, bathed in the glow of the dying sunlight. She wrapped her legs around his waist, hot and wet beneath him, waiting. Begging.

He entered her slowly, so that he could feel every inch envelope him as he pushed inside her. Emory's pale, colorless eyes burned straight into his gaze, unblinking, and only when he was embedded completely within her did she close her eyes and let her head fall back. Pure bliss was written in her expression. Michael saw strands of his hair fall around her face, mingling with her own ebony curls. Light and dark, good and evil. The irony of it startled him. Shouldn't he, the murderer, be the dark-haired one?

Emory wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him down into a deep kiss. All thoughts of irony flew out of his head. She bit gently on his lower lip, and he responded with a growl, soft and low in his chest. A smile curled her lips. Little tease.

He could play that game, too.

He withdrew from her, painfully slow, and paused, and just before she could snap out an angry curse, he thrust hard back inside her. Emory gasped, digging her nails into his back. But she couldn't hold him there, he pulled away again, just as slow, just as torturous, and slammed into her once more. Fury glinted in her eyes, but she didn't need to say anything. He was on the edge of a knife, his body screaming to take her hard and fast, his mind empty of all thoughts. He couldn't fight it any longer.

The last shred of his willpower dissolved when she sank her teeth into his neck, not hard, but not soft either. With another guttural growl, Michael lost control and began pounding into her, wildly, uncontrolled and unrestrained. He felt her grip tighten on him, and he pressed down against her, as the world around them disappeared and all that was left was _her_.

Ecstasy crashed down over him as Emory screamed his name, and he buried his face in black silken curls so that she would not see the open, vulnerable expression in his eyes. He would one day show her, let her see past his mask. He would talk for her. He would cry out her name. One day.

But not today. This was still too new to him.

So he steeled his expression and lifted up on his elbows to look down at her. She was watching him, and in her eyes he saw the exact expression that he had just hidden from her. His heart skipped a beat. Too new. He didn't know how to handle this. A sliver of fear slipped into his mind. He had never wanted to speak so badly as he did right now.

Emory smiled, as if she recognized the fight going on within him. She pushed gently on his chest and rolled him over onto his back, drawing the blankets over them. Without a word, she slid her arm over his waist and laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Michael watched her with a smile in his eyes, and when her breathing finally slowed and he knew she was deeply asleep, he let that smile curl his lips. Within him, he felt his possessiveness of her evolve into something more complex and protective. He didn't dwell on it. No good would come from dwelling. He just closed his eyes and fell into the first truly peaceful sleep he'd had in a very long time.


	14. For Her

AN: Let me know what you think! This is about where the movie picks up, with Michael finding his mask. More to come, hope you enjoy!

-

_Michael was dreaming. The night air was biting cold as he walked silently down the deserted streets of Haddonfield. Houses passed in a blur of unimportant colors and shapes. He knew where he was going by instinct; he didn't need to see._

_The house appeared at the end of the road, dark and quiet. Michael's pace did not alter. He was a patient man. He kept on his path, ignoring the whispers and lights flickering at the edge of his vision._

_As he neared the house, he began to make out shapes. Someone was sitting on the front steps. He stopped at the gate and tilted his head. It was Bonnie, older and beautiful, just like their mother. She had long, light brown hair, and Deborah's smile. Michael was not fazed; he'd had this dream before. It always served to remind him why he had done the things he'd done all those years ago. He did it to protect her, to keep her safe and make her happy. And from behind the darkened windows of his abandoned home, he saw their faces staring out at him, full of hatred and anger. They did not bother him because they could not hurt him anymore. And he had been justified in his actions. He had never felt guilt at their deaths._

_But there was something new in this dream. Michael turned to glance back over his shoulder at the empty street and saw nothing._

_When he looked back at Bonnie, shock washed over him. She was not alone._

_Emory was sitting next to her. Her hair was down, soft black curls that fell over her shoulders and framed her face. She was wearing a white sundress as light and playful as her smile as she talked and laughed with Bonnie. He couldn't hear them. He was deaf to everything. But by God, he could see._

_Michael took a step forward and immediately the lightness in the air changed. Darkness descended over him, and while he stood frozen in place, unable to move, he saw the windows of that damned house open, and the ghosts started crawling out, reaching with grasping, clawed hands for Emory and Bonnie._

_Michael felt every muscle in his body straining to move, but he was paralyzed. Anger tore through him like fire, pure and white hot. He would unleash the wrath of Hell upon anyone who tried to harm them. He would rip their heart out. God help the fools that reached for Emory and Bonnie now, with ghostly white, hungry hands._

_God have mercy on them._

_Because he sure as hell wouldn't._

-

When he woke up, it was still dark out. He could hear crickets singing through the open window. The world was at peace, completely at odds with his mind. His blood still hummed with fury and despair. He had to protect them.

He sat up, careful not to disturb Emory. She lay curled on her side, hair splayed out like a dark halo around her head. Michael felt warmth flicker through him, but it was brief and weak and instantly stamped out. He slipped out of bed without waking her, and went to stand by the glass door that opened up onto the balcony.

The alarm clock on the bedside table said 2:37. Michael stood there for a long time, listening to Emory breathe, waiting for the anxiety to dissolve from his mind. After ten minutes, he gave up, and a prick of sadness touched him; he had to do it. He had to go. He wouldn't be able to rest if he didn't.

He walked over to the Wal-Mart bags Emory had left on the table earlier that evening and sorted through them. He couldn't walk around Haddonfield naked, after all.

But she had put her lab coat in the bag with his clothes, so the sweats and t-shirt she got for him smelled like her. For some reason, the idea of going back into that house smelling like Emory made him flinch. He couldn't bring any part of her there with him. He couldn't risk it.

So he donned his old scrubs. They smelled like blood and sweat and the asylum. Fitting.

Then he went back to the bed, pulled there like a magnet to iron, so he could reach out and brush his fingertips through her hair one more time. He paused, hesitating, and then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. And then he sat back, and looked down at her, memorized this picture of her in some fragile hope that if he always remembered her perfectly, she would always be as safe as she was right now.

As he opened the glass door that led out onto the balcony, he felt the cold night air raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He glanced back at Emory. The anxiety in his mind tripled. He had to go. He had to see the house for himself, and kill any demons that awaited him there.

He had to finish this. He had to face his past one last time.

-

It didn't take him very long to get to the house, only a few minutes of his mind screaming and his body singing with rage. The urge to kill had never been so strong to him. He wanted to hurt something. He wanted physical proof that he was capable of protecting the woman he loved and the sister he didn't know. He had to get into the house.

It was easy, actually. He slammed his fist into the back window and reached through to unlock the door. It was nailed shut, but that didn't bother him. That didn't even slow him down. With one swift yank, the door was free and he was inside.

It smelled different. Smelled like old blood and fear and years of dust. Michael felt his body go cold all over as memories assaulted him. Memories that he thought he had buried. They flew through his head, one after the other, blurring together, an unending stream of them; Bonnie, Judy, Ronnie, his mother, Halloween, rats, knives, blood, candy, duct tape. Over and over, they played out in his mind.

He didn't feel anything as his knees hit the floor. He put his hands out to keep himself from falling flat on his face. His eyes saw floorboards, but his mind saw white skin, glinting steel, and blood, blood, blood. A mask. That's what it was. His first mask.

The first time he had been able to protect Bonnie. It might work. It might help.

His fingernails skimmed along the floorboard until he found a crack wide enough. He dug his fingers in and ripped at the wood. It cracked, splinters exploded in the air around him. His hands scrambled to grab hold of more boards. He knew it was here, his mind remembered hiding it. The mask would help. The mask was here, right beneath him. The mask and…

The knife.

He went still. He felt old, rotten rubber beneath his hands, and the cool flat side of the butcher's knife. With numb fingers, he lifted the mask out from beneath the floor. It was just as he remembered it. Perfect.

As he pulled the mask over his face, a part of him remembered that he was doing this to protect them. He couldn't remember who they were, only that he was protecting them. That was all that mattered.

And then that voice faded away, and all that was left in him was emptiness. The handle of the knife fit perfectly into his hand. He was ready, he had to do this. Didn't know why, but knew he had to. That voice whispered at him from its deathbed: _Bonnie. Emory. Bonnie. Emory._ On and on, over and over.

He gritted his teeth, clenched the knife tightly in his hands, and nodded.

For Bonnie.

And for Emory.


	15. Cold

_AN: More to come soon!  
_

-

The first thing Emory's sleep-drugged mind registered was that she was cold. She curled deeper beneath the sheets instinctively, while her mind struggled to understand _why_ it was cold. Shouldn't be. It wasn't winter quite yet, and the heat was on in the room. And Michael was big, and always warm.

Emory's eyes snapped open.

Michael was always warm. And the bed was cold. Which meant that Michael wasn't here.

Shit.

Emory bolted upright, threw the sheets off her legs and stumbled to her feet. The room was still completely in order. He'd left the clothes she bought for him untouched in the Wal-mart bag. But his scrubs were gone.

She looked at the clock. It was 10:43. Shit. How long had he been gone? Why did he leave?

Emory stopped. Everything in her stopped. Her heart, her mind, her breath…

He'd left her. He'd used her for his own pleasure and then he'd left her.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, numb and cold, staring blankly at the worn blue carpet. Her hair fell down over her face in wild black tangles.

Michael had left. He had changed his mind, changed his choice. He wanted to see Bonnie more than he wanted to be with her. He wanted to carve a path of blood through Haddonfield until he found his sister.

Emory smiled. Tears blurred her vision, stung her eyes. She fought them. She would not cry. Even when Jack had killed her parents, she had not cried. She sat up straight, brushed her hair out of her face, and took a deep breath. Despair clawed at her, aching to consume her mind entirely, but she fought that, too. She would not give in to weakness. She would not sit idly by and do nothing. She would not let Michael abandon her.

Her parents had not had any choice in leaving her alone in the world. But Michael had made his choice. He had chosen death.

So be it.

She knew exactly where to find him.

-

"They stared at me like a row of Chrstimas puddings!" Loomis fumed, hurrying down the steps of Knox College. He squinted in the mid-day sun. Beside him, the Dean of the English Department was vehemently assuring him that he had, in fact, done a stellar job. Loomis smiled inwardly. This was going well. With any luck, he'd be able to transition smoothly from a working psychologist to a touring lecturer, capitalizing on his most famous patient.

He was congratulating himself on this first step towards fame when his phone rang. Anxiety twisted in his stomach.

He wasn't sure why.

"Yes, hello?"

"Sam, it's Marvin." A pause, as the name registered in Loomis's mind. He felt like someone had stuffed cotton into his ears. His vision tunneled. He didn't want to hear what was coming next. "He's out. Michael is out."

A moment's hesitation, while his brain registered what his ears had heard.

"_What?!_"

-

It _was_ cold outside. Emory shivered slightly as she walked out to her car, and cursed herself again as she slid into the frigid leather driver's seat. The bimmer hummed to life at her fingertips, and she tried to take pleasure in the fact that at least one object of her affection still returned the sentiment.

She drove carefully, under the speed limit, despite the fact that her blood hummed with fury and despair. She tried to ignore the fact that she kept seeing him behind every tree, in every shadow, taunting her. Mocking her.

Emory grinned again, but there was no joy in her. There was only grim determination. He would not get what he wanted, not anymore. Not after what he'd gotten from her. She would do whatever she had to.

She pulled over a block away from his old house and walked in the biting autumn air down the sidewalk, half-expecting him to jump out at her at any moment. But no, that was stupid. He wouldn't dare come near her now unless it was to kill her, and he wouldn't do that until it was dark. She wasn't sure how she knew this. She just knew.

She walked around the back of the house and felt a jolt of adrenaline as she saw the back door standing wide open. There was a part of her that begged silently that he would be in there, waiting for her. Waiting to pull her into his arms and smile with his eyes. She smothered that part of her with ruthless efficiency and stepped into the house.

It smelled old, like years of dirt and mildew. When she squinted into the darkness, she could see a trail moving through the dust. Shuffling footsteps. He hadn't walked like that at all when he'd been with her.

In fact, he'd stripped himself of all signs of his fugue catatonia when she'd helped him escape.

And yet she could see the pattern, the dragging footsteps. It was as if a part of his mind had taken over and forced him into that coma-like state.

A cold shiver crawled over her skin. If Michael was in the grip of something like that, she was committing suicide by trying to interfere with his plans.

But there was nothing else she could do.

"Michael!" She hissed into the darkness. Nothing. Not the movement of his feet, or the gentle rush of his breathing.

He wasn't here.

Emory's shoulders fell slightly. Sadness threatened to consume her, a raw, hungry force at the edge of her awareness, waiting for the instant she let her guard down.

But she couldn't. She straightened, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

He would want to see Bonnie, and inspect her family. See if she was happy and healthy. If the Strodes did not meet his criteria for good parents, he would kill them the first chance he got.

Emory reached into her lab coat pocket and pulled out her keys. She had to get to Bonnie's parents before Michael did.


	16. Emptiness

_AN: I just wanted to thank everyone who has been following this story. The end is in sight, but I'm struggling. This has never been such a problem with me, and thought I might ask my readers for a bit of help, so.... _

_**Do you want a happy ending or an unhappy ending?** I can't decide. I know it seems like a stupid question, but I need help! Please review and let me know! If more readers prefer a happy ending, I can do that. If you guys would rather an ending that more accurately follows the movie, I can do that, too._

_Please let me know!_

-

Emory pulled over and parked on the side of the road opposite the Strode house. She'd been following Mason Strode all day, convinced that Michael would go after Laurie's father first, since he had killed his stepfather first seventeen years ago. The day had been miserably uneventful. Every other man she saw was Michael, waiting patiently for his chance. Waiting for her to let her guard down.

She watched as Mason walked up into his house, and instantly she felt a chill run down her spine.

He was near. She couldn't in a million years have explained how she knew it, but she _knew_. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her like a physical force, pressing down on her, heavy and cold.

Still she waited, because it would not be wise to confront the Strodes with Laurie still in the house. Michael would wait until Laurie left, so that she would be spared any traumatization that would inevitably occur from his confrontation with her adoptive parents.

Emory could wait, too.

An hour passed, and children began wandering past the car, dressed as ghosts and princesses. Emory kept her gaze trained on the windows and doors of the Strode house, ready to leap from the car the instant she saw that hauntingly familiar figure moving through the darkness to attack.

But she saw nothing. And finally, Laurie and her mother came out to sit on the front porch with a bowl of candy. They chatted for a bit, doled out Halloween treats, while Emory watched like a hawk. Every movement, every shadow. She waited, as Mason joined his wife and daughter on the front porch.

A sporty little red Nissan pulled up in front of the house, and instantly Emory was moving. She slid out of her car and watched as Laurie jumped into the red car's passenger seat and drove off. Mason and Synthia Strode sat watching her departure in peaceful silence.

Emory moved quickly, crossing the street and approaching their front porch. When Synthia Strode saw her, she tilted her head and gave her a small smile.

"A little old to be trick-or-treating, aren't you?" She asked with a friendly laugh. Mason had an expectant expression on his face.

Emory realized she was still wearing her lab coat. She sighed.

"I'm afraid it's not a costume. My name is Emory Brighton, I'm a psychologist from Smith's Grove Sanitarium." She paused to see if the name or the hospital would ring a bell. Neither registered. She breathed a quick sigh of relief; that meant that Loomis hadn't pasted her picture in the press as an accomplice for Michael's escape. "I need to talk to you. Inside. Right now."

Mason frowned. "I'm sorry, I don't think…"

"It's a matter of life or death, Mr. Strode." She knew how ridiculous this sounded, of course. But it was the only way to get their attention. She could feel her shoulder blades itching, Michael's gaze bearing down on her with physical force. He'd be upon them soon.

Shit.

Synthia and Mason exchanged confused glances. But Synthia stood.

"All right, come on in," she said softly. Emory followed them through the front door and into the warmth of their living room.

She immediately locked the dead bolt behind her, even though a part of her laughed at the absurdity of it; Michael was the strongest man she'd ever met, a mere deadbolt would stop him about as long as a door made of cotton balls.

"Hey, now what the hell is this about?" Mason demanded in that casually worried tone of someone who'd never truly been in danger in his entire life.

Emory met his gaze and let that mask of steel slide down her face. "Michael Myers has escaped. He has come for his sister."

The change was instant and drastic. Mason tensed as if he'd been slapped, and Synthia's face drained of all color. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Mason sat down very slowly.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he murmured. Then his eyes snapped up to Emory's in sudden comprehension. "How did you know who Laurie was?"

"That's not important," Emory said instantly. "We need to get you to safety."

"What?" Synthia whispered. "But… why us? What about Laurie? We...we have to help Laurie!" As she spoke, her tone became more strained, more hysterical. Emory held a hand up to silence her.

"Right now, Laurie is safe. Because rght now, he's coming for you."

"But… but why?" Synthia cried.

Emory opened her mouth to speak at the same time the door exploded inward in a spray of splintered wood, and Michael walked calmly into the living room. Synthia screamed and Mason backed away, but Emory moved forward, blocking him from the Strodes. Her thoughts were whirling around in her head, a mile a minute, a vortex of pain and hurt and anger.

Michael tilted his head at her, and behind that eerie white mask, his sharp blue eyes were blank. Emory felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. He was gripping his butcher's knife so tightly his knuckles were turning white. And there was blood on it.

Emory knew she had to choose her words carefully. Simply saying 'don't do it' or 'leave them alone' would not suffice. Michael was in the grip of something dangerous and bloodthirsty, and there wasn't much she could do to get through to him.

Except, perhaps…

"They are innocent, Michael," she said softly. His eyes flickered down to her, and locked onto her as if she was a beacon. He took a step back, as if physically shoved. He glanced back to the Strodes, and life flickered in his eyes. They were so expressive, his eyes. How was she the only one who could see that? "Bonnie has grown up strong and happy with them. Don't take that away from her."

He looked down at her, and the look in his eyes was accusational. _Don't use that ploy against me_, his eyes warned. But Emory only raised an eyebrow. All the pain that coursed through her threatened to burst out at any moment, in a fit of tears and rage. But she couldn't let him see that.

"I'm not going to let you kill them," she said softly. God, she just wanted to hold him again. She wanted to kiss him.

Michael moved so quickly he seemed like a blur, slipping past Emory and bringing the handle of his knife down on Mason's temple, knocking him out instantly. Before Emory could move, he'd done the same to Synthia. He stared down at them, then looked back up at Emory. His eyes were sly, rebellious. Emory frowned. Now the Strodes were unconscious. But at least they weren't dead.

He started to move towards her slowly, confidence etched in every step. Emory refused to back away from him, despite the fact that her common sense screamed at her to do so. Pride kept her in place. Pride and anger. She would not back down from this man. She couldn't feel fear, but by God if she could have, she would _not _have feared him.

And he knew it.

He slammed the butt of the butcher's knife into her temple, and her knees went out from under her. She felt warmth surround her, gentle strength. He smelled like blood and insanity. She couldn't see anything, but she clung to him as tightly as if he were her last link to life itself.

"Thank you," she whispered.

And then everything went black.


	17. Alone

_AN: I just want to thank everyone who gave me their input about the ending of this story. You guys are an unending source of inspiration and delight._

_For the record, I'll definitely be going with the happy ending. But since I've devoted so much time and energy into the sad ending, I'm going to post that one, too. (It was the one I originally wrote with the intent of keeping my plot congruent with the storyline of the movie). _

_I'll post them at the same time, so you can choose to either ignore the sad ending, or read them both. They'll be labeled 'The Hour of Separation' (for the sad ending) and 'Eternum' (for the happy ending)._

_And I was actually already considering a sequel, Naruillin. ;D I'm still not sure about it, though. I'll let you know._

_Thanks again, everyone._

_Love,_

_Amanda._

-

Through two miles of uninhabited woodland in the middle of Haddonfield, Illinois, a large, silent shadow carried Emory's unconscious form back to her motel. He laid her almost reverently on the bed, pulling the comforter over her to shield her from the frigid night air.

The shadow watched her for a long time, eyes steady, focused and unwavering.

And then they flickered. And then they closed.

When they opened again, they were different. Empty. Flat. Cold.

The shadow turned his back on Emory Brighton and walked out of the room.

-

And somewhere in the middle of a slightly desecrated cemetery in Haddonfield, Illinois, Samuel Loomis locked eyes with Lee Brackett and said, in an urgent, quiet voice, "Death has come to your little town, Sherriff."

-

This time, when Emory woke up, she was not surprised by the fact that she was cold. She _was_ surprised by the screaming pain that was shooting through her head. But only for a moment.

Only until her memories returned.

Her eyes flew open, and she instantly regretted it. The dim light of the lamp on the bedside table seemed to burn holes into her head. She groaned softly, and lifted her hand to gently touch her left temple. It was bruised, but only slightly swollen.

Which meant that she'd been asleep for a while. Hours. Oh God, what had he done?

She tried to sit up, but it felt like her body was nothing more than a useless lump of dead weight. Slowly, carefully, she pulled back the covers and she pushed herself into a sitting position, and then, just as slowly, she opened her eyes.

She was back in the motel. The room swam dizzyingly in her line of vision, so she took a deep breath and waited.

Slowly, gradually, the room calmed itself and stopped spinning.

And then she made the mistake of trying to stand.

The onslaught of dizziness and nausea brought forth a wave of blackness that threatened to swallow her whole, but she fought it. She had to get to him. She _had_ to try to stop him. Even as she reached out for the bedside table to steady herself, she was growing stronger, shaking off the side effects of what her medical colleagues would have called "blunt force trauma to the head."

_Focus_, she commanded of her mind. Michael was in danger. Everyone was in danger. She had to get to him.

"You son of a bitch," she cursed, visualizing the slow, confident way he had approached her at the Strode house.

She made her way to the bathroom, saw the delicate bruise beneath her left eye. Her hair camouflaged the bump on her temple, but it made itself known with every beat of her heart.

As soon as she felt strong enough to walk, she made for the door. Her mind was still fuzzy, but her body worked well enough. While the details remained a blur, she knew she had to find him. There was no other option.

But where would he be?

"Stupid question," she chided herself, walking as quickly as she could down the sidewalk, arms clasped tightly together in a vain attempt to retain what little body heat she had left. She knew exactly where he would be. He knew she knew it, too.

It took her nearly an hour to walk the mere two miles to his childhood home. She cursed her body endlessly for its weakness, and pushed herself as hard as she could. But by the time the old, dilapidated house was finally in sight, there were sirens screaming through the air in the distance. People had already gotten hurt. She could only hope she would be able to get there in time.

The house looked haunting and empty from where she stood on the sidewalk. She wondered if he was in there, watching her. She hated herself for how much she desperately hoped

She stood outside the front door for what seemed like hours, waiting for something. She didn't know what. Maybe for the pain to recede.

It didn't.

She waited and listened. The wind whispered through dying late-autumn leaves, crickets chirped lazily, and the sirens grew steadily closer.

And then she heard something. It was faint and distant, muffled through layers of wood and insulation, but she knew instantly what it was.

Somewhere in the house, Bonnie Myers was screaming.


	18. Betrayal

_AN: After this chapter, it'll be time for the finale. Enjoy! :)_

-

"Please don't hurt me," Bonnie cried. She was sobbing. So much sadness… His baby sister didn't deserve such sadness. She deserved all the happiness in the world.

Michael fell to his knees. His knife dropped from numb fingers into the damp soil beneath him. Slowly, as if he was acting the dutiful fugue patient for Loomis, he reached up and pulled off his mask.

Time had stopped. Now Bonnie was staring at him, cowering in the corner, begging him not to hurt her. But he couldn't hear anything. He could only see.

She looked just like their mother, except for the darker shade of her hair. God, he had missed her! Why was she so afraid? All he wanted was for her to look at him with that sweet, childlike grin on her face one more time. He just wanted her to understand.

_Everything that I have done, I have done for you._

As he thought it, he saw another face in his mind, a sly grin, pale colorless eyes, curling black hair splayed across a pillow. With a small sigh, he amended his thought.

_Everything that I have done, I have done for the both of you_.

With numb fingers, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture, the one material item he had cherished throughout his silent reign at Smith's Grove. He held it out for her, but she merely whimpered and cowered.

Why was she so afraid of him? Emory wasn't afraid of him. Emory knew what he was thinking almost before he did. But this pitiful little creature was his _sister_. Shouldn't his sister know him? Shouldn't she recognize him?

He waited. After a few minutes, Bonnie stopped crying. She looked up, her eyes latched onto the photo in his hands.

"I don't understand," she whispered. As she spoke her voice grew more hysterical, "Please, just… just leave me _alone_!"

Still he held the picture out for her. Maybe if she saw it, she would remember.

But then she took a ragged breath. "_I don't know them! Please!_"

_Please what?_ He wondered. _Let you go? You are free to go whenever you want to, Bonnie._

All he wanted was for her to understand.

And then came the change. One minute, she was hysterical, rocking back and forth in a ball on the floor, and then the next she went completely still. Hope shot through Michael like a lightning bolt. Suddenly, she was on her hands and knees, looking at him, looking down at the ground, and then up at the picture.

"I want to help you," she said in a shaking whisper. Michael tilted his head slightly. She wanted to help him? He didn't need any help. "I want to help you…" She moved forward, inching closer to him. Closer to the picture. Did she remember? Did she finally understand?

And then, somewhere above them, a door slammed, and a woman's voice rang out, laced with fury and anxiety.

"Michael! Where are you?!"

It was Emory. Instantly, Michael's head snapped around towards the basement stairs, and every muscle in his body went tense and still. Emory was awake. She had found him.

She was pissed.

Michael heard Bonnie move just as he was turning back to her. She leapt towards him, screaming a wordless cry of terror and rage, and then the world dissolved in a haze of seething, white-hot pain.

She had stabbed him. It was all he could think as he fell to the ground. His little sister had fucking _stabbed_ him.

She was screaming, beating on the door, but Michael couldn't move. Blood wept from his shoulder, and the blade was pure agony buried in his flesh.

After a moment, he came back to himself. He reached up and grasped the knife handle, clenched his teeth tightly together and pulled.

It really didn't hurt as much as he expected, but he shuddered slightly at the sensation of blood trickling over his skin.

But his mind was already moving away from the pain, focusing on what was going on around him.

Bonnie was stumbling up the basement stairs, crying hysterically as she went.

Michael closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. He had to get up there, he had to see Emory.

She was all he had left now.

As he pulled himself up from the ground, and slowly made his way to the stairs, he felt the weight of sadness like a physical burden on his shoulders.

Bonnie was not his sister anymore.


	19. The Hour of Separation

_AN: For the record, this is the SAD ending. And this is NOT the one I'm using to complete the story. It does, however, tie into the end of the movie._

_This one took a lot out of me to write. Enjoy…?_

-

It only took a matter of moments for Emory to locate the source of the screaming. She walked quickly around to the front hallway of the house, where the entry to the basement was.

But before she could even approach the door, it burst open, and a haggard Laurie Strode stumbled out into the hallway. Her eyes, wide with terror and shock, locked onto Emory and she let out a cry of relief.

Instantly, she was in Emory's arms, clinging to her like a frightened child. She was talking, but most of her words blurred together in a cacophony of sobs and whimpers. Emory wrapped her arms tightly around the younger woman and started making soothing noises, the kind she had always made to Damien when he was a baby.

She watched the doorway, waiting, comforting Bonnie. When Michael finally appeared at the top of the stairs, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, knife clasped loosely in his hand, she met his eyes and frowned.

But what she saw there made her anger disappear instantly. She had never seen anyone with such sadness in their eyes. Such desperate loneliness.

"Tell her, Michael," she urged softly. "Tell her who she is."

Laurie gazed up at Emory with wide eyes, her breath coming in jagged gasps. She looked slowly over her shoulder, and as Michael's form came into view, she instantly started flailing, screaming, pleading. Emory wrapped her arms around the girl and held her tightly, comforting her, backing slowly away from Michael.

"Calm down, Laurie… Laurie!" She hissed. The younger girl paused at the urgency in Emory's voice. "He's not going to hurt you."

"You're… you're with _him_?" She whispered, horrified. Emory sighed. She looked up at Michael.

"Michael," she said softly, "please, tell her."

He moved forward, paused, and dropped down to his knees. His eyes closed briefly, and Emory sucked in an unsteady breath. He had lost a lot of blood. If he fainted now…

But then his eyes were open again, and he slowly pulled the picture out of his pocket. Laurie struggled weakly in Emory's grip, too overwhelmed by shock and betrayal to fight. Michael held the picture out to her, waiting patiently. Emory's heart cried out for him.

"I don't understand," Laurie whimpered. "What do you want from me? I don't _understand_." Now she was talking to Emory, pleading with her. "Please. I don't want to die."

"Laurie, I promise he's not going to hurt you." She saw the look in Laurie's eyes and added, "I'm not going to hurt you either."

"He killed Lynda," she whimpered.

"I'm sorry," Emory said softly. "I wasn't here to stop him."

Michael held the picture out again. Laurie flinched, but she reached out with a trembling hand and took the photo. While she looked at it, shaking her head in confusion, Emory met Michael's gaze. And she knew that he wasn't going to speak. He wouldn't be able to tell her. He thought she might be better off not knowing. He was giving Emory the choice.

Emory nodded.

"I don't understand," Laurie whispered, edging slightly back from Michael's intimidating presence.

Emory sighed.

"That's Michael, in that picture," she said softly. "And the little girl he's holding… that's you."

She was silent for a few moments, absorbing this information.

"I don't have a brother," she whispered, voice trembling. Emory closed her eyes. At that moment, she hated Laurie Strode for the pain she knew the girl was causing Michael.

"You were adopted by Mason and Cynthia Strode when you were two," Emory said through gritted teeth.

"What?" Laurie's voice was less than a whisper now. She was looking dangerously pale. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Michael killed his abusive stepfather and older sister, Laurie." Emory said slowly, "so that you wouldn't have to grow up like he did."

And just like that, like someone had flipped a switch, Laurie's eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she fainted.

Emory caught her before she hit the floor, easing her to the ground. Then she stood up and looked at Michael. He was still on his knees. In slow, jerking movements, he dropped the knife and looked up at her. Never in her life had she seen anyone look so sad and lost.

_What now?_ He was asking her. What _do I do now?_

Without thinking, Emory moved forward and pulled him tightly against her. He responded reflexively, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her abdomen. His breathing was more shallow than normal, but his grip on her was unyielding.

And Emory knew at that moment, as she watched him close his eyes and felt the tension in his body slowly disappear, that she loved him more than anything else in the entire world.

Tears burned in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away.

"You're going to need stitches." She said in a quiet voice, glancing down at the stab wound in his shoulder. It was deep, and still wept blood, though slowly. She was amazed. How was he still conscious?

He didn't move.

Emory leaned down and brushed her lips over his forehead. She wanted to tell him so bad her heart ached. But she couldn't. Not yet.

Instead she said, "Michael, we have to go."

He nodded, just a miniscule movement, just enough to show his agreement.

"It's not your fault," she whispered. "You did what was best for her at your own expense. She'll be okay." Emory smiled down at him. "She's strong. Like her brother."

Michael lifted his head, looked up into her eyes. His lips parted. Emory's heart stopped. He was… he was going to talk…

She heard movement behind her. Laurie had woken up. It didn't matter, all that mattered was Michael.

And then…

_White hot…_

_Searing…._

_Screaming…_

_PAIN. _

Her mind exploded with it, her vision shattered. Something was wrong. Oh, God, something was wrong. There was something – _in her back_, something that burned and twisted agony into her very existence. And then it was gone.

The butcher's knife clattered to the floor.

"No," said a voice, rough and deep and filled with despair. A plea.

It was Michael.

Emory fell to her knees in front of him, felt his arms wrap around her for support. There was movement, a flash of it, and Emory glanced over to see Laurie running out of the house. There was blood on Laurie's hands. Michael's blood. And now, Emory's blood.

There was blood in Emory's left lung. The knife had gone straight between her ribs. She would probably pass out soon, from shock and pain.

"Michael," she breathed, leaning into him. It was all she had the strength to say. Every breath wracked her with seething, rippling pain. Her limbs were numb. She was going into shock. Her vision was fading. The blade must have hit something important. She tasted blood in her mouth, like iron shavings, and a dull, throbbing ache in her chest.

She was bleeding internally.

Oddly enough, the realization didn't shock her. It was really more of an acknowledgement. Yes, she was bleeding internally, and that blade had probably nicked her heart, and maybe some of her internal organs. It had certainly cut straight through her lung.

"Emory," he growled, pulling her closer against him. The sudden movement sent pain lancing through her body, and she let out a ragged gasp. But he didn't let her go. She looked up, met his ice blue gaze, and somehow, despite the pain, despite the growing feeling of weightlessness, she managed to smile.

"I love you, Michael. Did you know that?" She whispered. Her eyesight was beginning to fade, darkness creeping around the edges of her vision.

His lips curved into a gentle, desperately amused smile.

Time seemed to stand still.

Then he leaned down, and brushed his lips over hers.

"Yes, Emory," he said softly.

Good. That was all that really mattered. So long as he knew… Emory blinked, trying to keep her eyes focused. But her pulse was beginning to slow. Her body was shutting down. The pain wasn't as bad now. It was fading with her heartbeat.

She tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his.

And then she felt her muscles begin to relax. She wasn't ready to let go of him, but her body wouldn't respond to her commands. She went limp, and numb, and only vaguely felt Michael lay her gently on the floor. She was cold again. She hated being cold.

His fingertips ghosted over her skin, across her lips, over her eyelids. He was shaking.

"I love you," he whispered.

-

He knew the instant it happened. She went completely still. Her breath sighed from her lips, tickling his cheek, and then she just didn't take another one. Michael stared down at her, at the circle of blood spreading beneath her. She was pale and silent.

She was dead.

Michael sat back, gazing at her, unblinking. As if he could will her back. As if… if he just watched long enough, she'd take another breath.

She didn't take another breath.

She was dead.

He was shaking. His thoughts were coming back to him, now. He let his gaze slide away from her, following the pool of blood along the floor in the darkness, until it came to rest on the knife.

The knife. Bonnie. Memories began to flicker through his head: the faint glint of light on razor sharp steel, the look of sudden, intense pain in Emory's eyes. A dark figure darting towards the front door.

_Bonnie_.

Instantly, Michael was on his feet, and the knife was in his hand. Fury hummed in his mind, as if alive, and adrenaline pulsed through him, electrifying his nerves. The handle of the knife was slick with Emory's blood. Michael felt a snarl curl his lips.

He walked with quick, confident steps, around the body of his only love and out into the cold, empty winter air. Somewhere nearby, Bonnie was screaming hysterically, crying, begging for someone to help her. Michael pulled the old, rotting rubber mask from his pocket and shoved it down over his head. His palm tingled where it touched the handle of his knife. Beneath that mask, his expression was blank and cold.

She was_ dead._


	20. Eternum

_AN: For the record, this is the ending I've decided to go with for my story. I hope you like it as much as I do. :)_

_Also, some of you seemed quite upset by the fact that Laurie did not end up recognizing Michael. I estimated baby Bonnie's age to be somewhere around one year old. Babies don't develop the ability to store long-term memories until about two or two-and-a-half years old. It would be physically impossible for Laurie to have remembered her brother._

_That does NOT, however, mean that she will never come to terms with the fact that he is her brother. And it doesn't mean that she'll never understand why he did what he did._

_That's what sequels are for, folks. :)_

-

It only took a matter of moments for Emory to locate the source of the screaming. She walked quickly around to the front hallway of the house, where the entry to the basement was.

But before she could even approach the door, it burst open, and a haggard Laurie Strode stumbled out into the hallway. Her eyes, wide with terror and shock, locked onto Emory and she let out a cry of relief.

Instantly, she was in Emory's arms, clinging to her like a frightened child. She was talking, but most of her words blurred together in a cacophony of sobs and whimpers. Emory wrapped her arms tightly around the younger woman and started making soothing noises, the kind she had always made to Damien when he was a baby.

She watched the doorway, waiting, comforting Bonnie. When Michael finally appeared at the top of the stairs, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, knife clasped loosely in his hand, she met his eyes and frowned.

But what she saw there made her anger disappear instantly. She had never seen anyone with such sadness in their eyes. Such desperate loneliness.

"Tell her, Michael," she urged softly. "Tell her who she is."

Laurie gazed up at Emory with wide eyes, her breath coming in jagged gasps. She looked slowly over her shoulder, and as Michael's form came into view, she instantly started flailing, screaming, pleading. Emory wrapped her arms around the girl and held her tightly, comforting her, backing slowly away from Michael.

"Calm down, Laurie… Laurie!" She hissed. The younger girl paused at the urgency in Emory's voice. "He's not going to hurt you."

"You're… you're with _him_?" She whispered, horrified. Emory sighed. She looked up at Michael.

"Michael," she said softly, "please, tell her."

He moved forward, paused, and dropped down to his knees. His eyes closed briefly, and Emory sucked in an unsteady breath. He had lost a lot of blood. If he fainted now…

But then his eyes were open again, and he slowly pulled the picture out of his pocket. Laurie struggled weakly in Emory's grip, too overwhelmed by shock and betrayal to fight. Michael held the picture out to her, waiting patiently. Emory's heart cried out for him.

"I don't understand," Laurie whimpered. "What do you want from me? I don't _understand_." Now she was talking to Emory, pleading with her. "Please. I don't want to die."

"Laurie, I promise he's not going to hurt you." She saw the look in Laurie's eyes and added, "I'm not going to hurt you either."

"He killed Lynda," she whimpered.

"I'm sorry," Emory said softly. "I wasn't here to stop him."

Michael held the picture out again. Laurie flinched, but she reached out with a trembling hand and took the photo. While she looked at it, shaking her head in confusion, Emory met Michael's gaze. And she knew that he wasn't going to speak. He wouldn't be able to tell her. He thought she might be better off not knowing. He was giving Emory the choice.

Emory nodded.

"I don't understand," Laurie whispered, edging slightly back from Michael's intimidating presence.

Emory sighed.

"That's Michael, in that picture," she said softly. "And the little girl he's holding… that's you."

She was silent for a few moments, absorbing this information.

"I don't have a brother," she whispered, voice trembling. Emory closed her eyes. At that moment, she hated Laurie Strode for the pain she knew the girl was causing Michael.

"You were adopted by Mason and Cynthia Strode when you were two," Emory said through gritted teeth.

"What?" Laurie's voice was less than a whisper now. She was looking dangerously pale. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Michael killed his abusive stepfather and older sister, Laurie." Emory said slowly, "so that you wouldn't have to grow up like he did."

And just like that, like someone had flipped a switch, Laurie's eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she fainted.

Emory caught her before she hit the floor, easing her to the ground. Then she stood up and looked at Michael. He was still on his knees. In slow, jerking movements, he dropped the knife and tilted his head up to her. Never in her life had she seen anyone look so sad and lost.

_What now?_ He was asking her. What _do I do now?_

Without thinking, Emory moved forward and pulled him tightly against her. He responded reflexively, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her abdomen. His breathing was more shallow than normal, but his grip on her was unyielding.

And Emory knew at that moment, as she watched him close his eyes and felt the tension in his body slowly disappear, that she loved him more than anything else in the entire world.

Tears burned in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away.

"You're going to need stitches." She said in a quiet voice, glancing down at the stab wound in his shoulder. It was deep, and still wept blood, though slowly. She was amazed. How was he still conscious?

He didn't move.

Emory leaned down and brushed her lips over his forehead. She had to tell him. She couldn't _not_ tell him.

"I love you, Michael."

He froze. He stayed like that for what seemed like hours. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

Emory waited. Every nerve in her body tingled, her pulse pounded in her ears, her fingers, laced through long golden hair, were trembling. She had known the risk when she said it. She had known that there was always the possibility that he didn't love her. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he knew.

In one fluid movement, Michael stood. Emory tilted her head back to meet his gaze as his arms slid around her waist. He pulled her tightly against him, locked eyes with her, and his lips curled into a sly, charming smile.

"I know," he whispered.

She laughed. She couldn't help herself. She threw her head back and laughed. The sound of it echoed throughout the old, drafty house. But she didn't care. Nothing mattered except the delightfully amused look on Michael's face. And that smile. And those lips…

Emory stood on her toes and pressed a playful kiss to those lips. And then she kissed them again. Just because she could.

And then she took his hand and she led him out of that house – and out of the past – forever.

END.


End file.
